THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE 


MERCHANT'S    WIDOW, 


OTHER    TALES. 


MRS.  CAROLINE    M.    SAWYER. 


NEW    YORK: 
P.   PRICE,    130   FULTON   STREET. 

1841. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1841, 

BY  P.  PRICE, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  Southern  District 
of  New  York. 


rEREOTVPED    BY    J.    S.    REDFIELD, 
13  Chambers  Street,  A'ew  York. 


PS 


DEDICATION. 


To  one  whom  I  have  found  ever  ready  to 
aid  me  by  his  counsel,  and  to  encourage  me 
by  his  sympathy  —  my  husband  —  I  would 
affectionately  dedicate  this  little  volume. 

THE  AUTHOR. 


1188749 


CONTENTS. 


I. 

PAOB 

THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW 9 

II. 
THE  UNEQUAL  MARRIAGE 63 

III. 
THE  LONELY  BURIAL U1 

IV. 

THE  VALLEY  OF  PEACE -   -   M 


PREFACE. 


IT  is  not  without  a  feeling  of  diffidence,  that 
the  author  of  the  following  tales  appears,  for 
the  first  time,  in  the  present  manner,  as  a  com- 
petitor for  public  favor.  She  is  sensible  that 
the  little  volume  she  now  presents  her  readers 
contains  many  imperfections,  but  she  neverthe- 
less hopes  that,  humble  and  unpretending  as  it 
is,  their  indulgence  if  not  their  judgment  will 
discover  in  it  more  to  approve  than  to  condemn. 
She  believes  that  the  most  fastidious  will  be 
able  to  detect  nothing  in  its  pages  that  militates 
against  the  interest  of  morality  and  religion, 
for  it  has  been  her  constant  aim  not  only  to 
show  the  deformity  of  vice,  but  to  hold  up  vir- 
tue in  its  most  attractive  colors. 

The  "  Merchant's  Widow"  is  entirely  a  work 
of  fancy,  but  it  is  hoped  that  it  is  not  altogether 


b  PREFACE. 

an  unsuccessful  effort  to  portray  the  evils  too 
frequently  resulting  from  the  present  injudi- 
cious system  of  fashionable  female  education. 

The  story  of  the  "  Unequal  Marriage  "  is  no 
fiction,  and  there  are  those  yet  living  to  whom 
the  principal  circumstances  which  make  up  the 
tale,  are  as  familiar  as  "  household  words." 

The  opening  chapter  of  the  story  of  the 
"  Lonely  Burial,"  is  also  but  a  literal  and  un- 
embellished  transcript  of  a  scene,  of  which  the 
author  was,  a  few  years  since,  an  actual,  and 
deeply-moved  spectator. 

Such  as  the  volume  is,  it  is  humbly  offered 
to  the  public  ;  and  that  it  may  be  found  not 
only  interesting  but  instructive  also,  is  the  fer- 
vent wish  of 

C.  M.  S. 

NEW  YORK,  March  25th,  1841. 


THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  Alas  !  the  proud  are  slow  to  feel 
For  outcasts,  wretched  and  forlorn  ! 

They  pass  the  shivering  wretches  by, 
They  thrust  the  needy  from  their  door, 

And  look  on  want  with  stony  eye : 
Oh  God  !  have  mercy  on  the  poor  !" 

"A  LITTLE  charity,  for  God's  sake!  my  chil- 
dren are  starving !"  fell  on  my  ear,  in  soft  but 
agonized  accents,  as  I  was,  one  winter  evening, 
just  at  dark,  thridding  my  way  through  one 
of  the  crowded  thoroughfares  of  New  York.  My 
course  was  instantly  arrested  by  the  voice  of 
distress,  and,  turning  around,  I  perceived  that 
the  prayer  had  been  uttered  by  a  female,  who 
seemed  shivering  alike  with  cold  and  misery. 
Her  clean,  but  faded  calico  frock  was  thin  and 


10  THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW. 

old,  and  the  scanty  and  threadbare  shawl  which 
enveloped  her  shoulders,  seemed  fitted  for  the 
temperature  of  summer  rather,  than  for  the  keen 
and  biting  cold  of  such  a  wintry  day ;  while 
the  light  and  unlined  muslin  bonnet  which 
covered  her  head,  appeared  intended  more  as  a 
strainer  for  the  searching  wind,  than  for  a  pro- 
tection against  it. 

She  was  addressing  a  mild  and  benign  ant  look- 
ing gentleman,  considerably  advanced  in  years, 
and  as  she  wrung  her  ungloved  hands,  which, 
though  purple  with  the  cold,  were  yet  small  and 
delicately  formed,  I  saw  that  commiseration  and 
sympathy  were  at  work  in  his  bosom.  He  in- 
stantly put  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  and,  drawing 
forth  a  dollar,  was  about  presenting  it  to  the 
poor  petitioner,  when,  seeming  to  recollect  him- 
self, he  checked  the  impulse ;  "  No,"  said  he,  "  I 
do  not  doubt  your  worth  or  your  necessity,  but 
I  would  rather  go  with  you,  and  relieve  your 
wants  at  your  own  house.  Tell  me  where  you 
live." 

"  Not  far  from  here,"  answered  the  poor  wo- 
man. "  It  is  just  around  in  Mott  street.  It  is 
a  wretched  home,  but  come  and  see  my  poor 


THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW.  11 

suffering  children,  and  may  God  bless  you  for 
your  kindness !" 

They  instantly  started,  and,  as  the  woman 
turned  toward  me,  the  sight  of  her  young  and 
lovely  countenance,  down  which  the  tears  were 
fast  streaming,  so  touched  my  heart,  that,  cold 
and  near  night  as  it  was,  I  could  not  forbear 
following.  When  arrived  at  her  dwelling,  how- 
ever, trusting  that  her  kind-looking  companion 
would  relieve  her  wants  for  that  evening,  I 
deemed  it  most  prudent  to  speed  my  way  home, 
without  entering,  or  even  addressing  her.  I 
therefore  carefully  observed  the  number  of  the 
door,  that  I  might  be  able  to  find  it  the  next 
day,  and  hastened  homeward. 

I  reached  my  domicil  in  safety,  and  was  soon 
seated  in  a  warm  and  comfortable  apartment, 
and  by  a  cheerful  and  well-filled  supper  table. 
But  as  the  hissing  urn  poured  forth  its  fragrant 
contents,  the  image  of  that  poor  mother,  hungry 
and  fireless,  and  surrounded  by  her  helpless  and 
starving  children,  rose  up  reproachfully  before 
me.  I  felt  as  if  I  had  been  selfish  and  unfeeling, 
in  trusting  to  the  probability  of  her  being  re- 
lieved by  another.  To  be  sure,  he  whom  she 


12  THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW. 

had  addressed,  and  who  had  accompanied  her  to 
her  door,  looked  benevolent,  and  would  most 
likely  supply  her  most  immediate  and  pressing 
wants,  but  then  there  was  a  possibility  that  he 
might  not  do  so.  "  What  if  some  of  her  chil- 
dren should  really  starve,  or  what  if  one  of  them 
should  freeze  to  death  this  very  night !"  The 
thought  was  too  dreadful  to  endure.  Something 
at  my  heart  told  me  I  had  no  right  to  eat,  when 
I  knew  others  whom  I  might  have  relieved  were 
dying  for  want  of  food,  and,  laying  down  my 
knife,  I  felt  as  if  another  mouthful  would  choke 
me. 

After  retiring  from  the  tea-table,  I  related  the 
circumstance  to  a  friend,  and  proposed  that  he 
should  go  with  me,  and  carry  a  basket  of  food 
to  the  poor  woman  that  evening.  He  readily 
acceded  to  the  proposal,  and  we  were  soon 
equipped  for  our  walk,  and  armed  with  a  large 
basket,  well  stored  with  different  kinds  of  food, 
such  as  I  thought  would  be  most  comfortable  for 
the  family  in  their  present  suffering  condition. 

The  wind  swept  in  freezing  and  fitful  gusts 
down  the  streets  as  we  sallied  forth,  but  wrap- 
ping my  cloak  tightly  about  me,  I  thought  of 


THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW.  13 

being  without  food  or  fire  on  such  a  wintry 
night,  and  faced  the  breeze  without  a  murmur 
at  its  keenness.  We  soon  reached  the  miserable 
dwelling  to  which  we  were  bound,  and,  knock- 
ing at  the  door,  were  after  some  hesitation  bade 
to  come  in.  We  entered  a  low  and  dilapidated 
apartment,  which  was  occupied  by  the  woman 
whom  I  had  seen  in  the  street,  and  three  small 
children  ;  the  two  eldest  of  whom  were  busied 
in  devouring  the  remnants  of  a  loaf  of  bread, 
while  the  mother  sat  rocking  the  youngest  in 
her  arms.  I  saw  that  charity  had  been  there 
before  me,  for  a  small  fire  was  burning  on  the 
hearth,  toward  which  the  children  occasionally 
held  out  their  hands,  with  a  look  of  satisfaction 
and  happiness,  which  told  more  plainly  than 
words  that  they  knew  what  it  was  to  be  de- 
prived of  its  comfort. 

4  Do  not  disturb  yourself,"  said  I,  as  the  poor 
woman  was  about  rising  at  our  entrance  ;  "  we 
will  wait  on  ourselves.  I  saw  you  this  afternoon 
in  the  street,  and  heard  your  earnest  appeal  for 
charity,  and  could  not  rest  until  I  had  seen 
whether  you  were  provided  for." 

We  seated  ourselves  by  the  fire,  and  a  slight 
2 


14  THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW. 

flush  passed  over  her  pale  and  expressive  coun- 
tenance, and  a  tear  glittered  in  her  large,  dark 
eye,  as  she  replied,  in  one  of  the  sweetest  voices 
I  ever  heard,  "You  are  very  kind,  madam,  and 
may  God  bless  you,  and  another  also  in  whom  I 
have  found  kindness  and  sympathy,  when  I  was 
almost  in  despair.  The  gentleman  to  whom  I 
made  my  appeal  this  afternoon,  and  which  you 
must  have  heard,  has  sent  me  fuel  and  food, 
which  have,  I  believe,  saved  us  from  freezing 
and  starvation.  For  I  had  literally  not  one 
mouthful  of  food,  or  one  particle  of  fuel,  in  my 
miserable  house,  and  no  solitary  means  of  pro- 
curing either,  when  I  sallied  forth  this  afternoon, 
for  the  first  time  in  my  life  —  to  beg  !  Ah,  I 
can  never  tell  what  my  feelings  were,  as  I  walked 
up  and  down  the  street  for  a  whole  hour,  before 
I  could  summon  the  courage  to  petition  a  single 
person !  I  was  almost  frozen  with  the  bitter 
cold,  and  I  knew  that  my  poor  hungry  children 
were  crying  at  home,  without  fire,  or  a  mouth- 
ful to  satisfy  the  ravenous  cravings  of  hunger, 
and  yet  I  dared  not  subject  myself  to  the  re- 
pulse, and  perhaps  insult  I  might  meet,  should  I 
dare  to  say  that  I  was  starving.  Many  passed 


THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW.  15 

me  who  gave  me  one  cold  and  careless  glance, 
but  I  felt  as  if  they  were  bound  up  in  selfishness 
or  worldly  interest,  and  would  not  heed  the 
prayer  of  one  so  poor  and  wretched  as  myself; 
and  I  suffered  them  to  go  on  without  making 
any  attempt  to  arrest  their  attention. 

"  At  last,  when  hope  was  almost  dead  within 
me,  I  saw  a  lady,  richly  attired,  and  holding  by 
the  hand  a  little  child,  who  was  decorated  with 
all  the  ornaments  which  wealth  and  fashion 
could  furnish,  approaching  me.  I  remembered 
the  time  when  my  own  children  were  dressed 
with  equal  care,  and  never  was  the  bitterness  of 
my  lot  more  keenly  felt  than  at  that  cruel  mo- 
ment. But  it  was  no  time  for  the  indulgence  of 
such  feelings,  and  as  I  gazed  on  the  delicate  face 
of  the  sweet  child,  and  saw  the  look  of  affection 
which  the  lady  fixed  upon  it,  hope  again  re- 
vived in  my  bosom.  '  Here  is  a  mother?  thought 
I, '  and  surely  here  the  tale  of  my  suffering  little 
ones  must  meet  with  sympathy  and  relief!'  As 
the  lady  reached  me  I  held  out  my  hands  toward 
her,  but  the  hot  tears  were  pouring  down  my 
face,  and  my  voice  was  so  choked  that  I  could 
scarcely  find  utterance  for  my  petition.  But  at 


16  THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW. 

• 

last  I  succeeded  in  telling  her  my  distress,  and 
that  of  my  children,  when,  after  listening  a  mo- 
ment, she  put  her  hand  in  her  reticule,  and  draw- 
ing forth  one  penny,  presented  it  to  me. 

" '  Here,'  said  she,  '  take  this !  Why  don't 
you  go  to  the  poorhouse  ?  I  have  no  patience 
with  beggars.  Let  me  pass,  will  you  1  You 
will  frighten  my  child !' 

" '  Ma,  I  am  not  afraid  of  her,'  lisped  the  little 
girl, '  and  she  may  have  my  sixpence  !' 

"  As  she  held  up  the  little  coin  for  my  ac- 
ceptance, my  first  thought  was  to  refuse  it,  but 
the  second  told  me  I  had  no  right  to  do  so,  and 
I  suffered  her  to  drop  it  into  my  hand.  The 
hot  blood  mounted  to  the  cheeks  of  the  mother 
at  this  sight ;  but  '  You  had  better  go  to  work 
instead  of  begging,'  was  her  only  comment,  and 
she  swept  on  without  another  look,  leaving  me 
standing  alone  in  all  my  wretchedness.  '  May 
God  bless  you,  sweet  child,'  said  I,  gazing  after 
them  for  one  grateful  moment,  '  and  may  you 
never  know  the  misery  which  has  fallen  upon 
my  own,  helpless  children.' 

"I  turned  away,  and  looking  at  the  trifling 
pittance  in  my  hand, '  What  is  this,'  thought  I, 


THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW.  17 

'to  provide  food  and  fuel  for  my  suffering 
family,  and  to  whom  could  I  apply  for  more  1' 
It  was  beginning  to  grow  dark,  and  sick  and 
despairing,  I  was  turning  to  go  home,  when  I 
met  a  gentleman  who  seemed  different  from  any 
other  I  had  seen,  and  I  resolved  to  make  one 
more  effort.  There  was  something  kind  and 
benignant  in  his  countenance,  which  encouraged 
me,  but  yet  it  was  with  a  feeling  of  desperation 
that  I  approached  him,  and  begged  him  for  the 
love  of  God  to  assist  me.  I  was  not  deceived  in 
his  looks;  as  you  saw,  he  accompanied  me 
home,  and  gave  me  this  fuel,  and  a  dollar  to 
purchase  provisions,  with  a  promise  to  call  again 
to-morrow.  God  will  reward  him,  I  cannot." 

Here  the  poor  woman  ended  her  recital,  and, 
wiping  away  the  tears  with  which  her  face  was 
covered,  arose  to  deposite  her  child  which  she 
had  been  rocking  to  sleep,  in  a  bed  which  stood  in 
one  corner  of  the  room.  While  she  was  thus 
occupied,  I  observed  the  two  elder  children 
casting  a  longing  eye  toward  the  basket  I  had 
brought  with  me,  and  drying  my  eyes,  which 
had  been  wet  more  than  once  during  the  last 
half  hour,  I  uncovered  it,  and  taking  out  a  hand- 


18  THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW. 

ful  of  crackers,  handed  them  to  the  little  ones, 
who  commenced  eating  them  with  an  appetite 
which  seemed  not  yet  half-satisfied. 

It  was  now  quite  late,  and  thinking  it  best  to 
defer  any  inquiries  into  the  history  of  the  unfor- 
tunate mother,  until  some  other  time,  I  emptied 
the  contents  of  my  basket  upon  the  table,  and, 
promising  to  call  again  the  next  day,  arose  to 
go.  She  accompanied  us  to  the  door,  and  amid 
tears  and  thanks  which  touched  our  hearts,  we 
departed.  The  weather  was  colder  than  when 
we  left  home,  but  the  thought  of  having  helped 
to  administer  comfort  to  one  sad  heart,  kept  us 
warm,  and  we  reached  our  abode,  glowing  with 
cheerfulness  and  satisfaction. 


THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW.  19 


CHAPTER  II. 

"  Pleasure  that  comes  unlooked-for,  is  thrice  welcome ; 
And  if  it  stir  the  heart,  if  aught  be  there, 
That  may  hereafter  in  a  thoughtless  hour, 
Wake  but  a  sigh,  'tis  treasured  up  among 
The  things  most  precious ;  and  the  day  it  came, 
Is  noted  as  a  white  day  in  our  lives." 

ROGERS'  Italy. 

ACCORDING  to  my  promise,  the  next  morning  I 
sallied  forth  once  more  to  visit  the  poor  widow, 
resolving  to  inquire  into  her  history,  and  en- 
deavor, if  possible,  to  devise  some  means  by 
which  she  could,  at  least,  aid  in  supporting  her- 
self and  little  ones. 

As  I  reached  her  abode,  the  benevolent  gen- 
tleman who  had  afforded  her  relief  the  evening 
before,  was  just  entering.  The  poor  woman  ap- 
peared grateful  and  happy  to  see  us,  and  in- 
vited us  to  sit  down  with  a  grace  and  politeness 
which  is  not  often  equalled.  While  the  old 
gentleman  was  inquiring  after  her  health,  and 


20  THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW. 

petting  the  children,  I  had  leisure  to  look  about 
me,  and  make  such  observations  as  I  was  unable 
to  do  at  my  previous  visit.  The  apartment, 
•which  seemed  to  be  the  only  one  occupied  by 
its  destitute  tenant,  though  furnished  in  the 
meanest  and  most  scanty  manner,  was  scrupu- 
lously clean  and  tidy ;  while  the  children,  though 
a  good  deal  patched  and  threadbare,  were  free 
from  the  smallest  particle  of  dirt.  But  it  was 
evident  from  the  texture  not  only  of  their  gar- 
ments, but  of  their  mother's  also,  that  they  had 
seen  better  days;  and  I  was  confirmed  in  this 
opinion,  by  the  modest  propriety  visible  in  the 
deportment  of  the  whole  family. 

"Well,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "I  have 
come  to  see  what  can  be  done  to  benefit  your 
situation,  and  this  lady,  who  entered  with  me, 
has  I  hope  come  on  the  same  errand.  At  any 
rate  she  looks  as  if  she  had." 

Somewhat  flattered  at  this  compliment  to  my 
physiognomy,  and  secretly  lauding  his  discern- 
ment, I  very  readily  assented  to  the  gentleman's 
supposition,  and  he  went  on  :  — 

"  You  seem  to  be  one  who  would  like  honest 
independence  better  than  dependance,  and  I 


THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW.  21 

suppose  would,  therefore,  be  glad  to  procure 
some  respectable  employment,  to  enable  you  to 
support  yourself  and  these  nice,  modest-looking 
little  folks.  I  like  modest  children,  and  let  me 
tell  you  ma'am,  it  was  your  children  more  than 
anything  else  that  made  me  get  up  so  much 
earlier  than  usual  this  morning,  and  that  has 
kept  my  old  brain  harder  at  work  thinking  what 
could  be  done  for  you,  than  it  has  worked  be- 
fore for  many  a  day.  But  tell  me  what  employ- 
ment would  you  like  ?  What  can  you  do  that 
would  be  profitable  V9 

"  Indeed,  sir,"  answered  the  poor  woman  with 
a  deep  sigh,  "  I  hardly  know  what  I  could  do 
that  would  yield  me  a  tolerable  support.  Un- 
fortunately, I  was  brought  up  in  a  part  of  the 
country  where  females  are  taught  scarcely  any- 
thing that  is  useful ;  and  until  I  came  to  this 
city,  I  had  hardly  learned  to  dress  myself ;  and 
many  and  many  an  hour  of  bitter  regret  have  I 
since  spent  at  my  own  helplessness." 

"  Shame !  folly !"  exclaimed  the  old  gentle- 
man with  a  look  of  pity  at  the  poor  mother, 
u  shame  to  bring  up  girls  in  such  a  way  !  In- 
stead of  teaching  them  to  become  useful  and 


22  THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW. 

valuable  members  of  society,  to  make  mere  dolls 
and  puppets  of  them  !  Just  as  if  riches  had  no 
wings,  and  there  was  no  possibility  of  their 
ever  being  obliged  to  earn  their  own  bread  by 
their  own  labor !  But  you  certainly  must  know 
how  to  sew,  or  your  children's  clothes  would 
not  be  so  nicely  patched." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  answered  she,  "  I  believe  I  can 
now  do  plain  sewing  tolerably  well.  Necessity 
has  been  a  stern  and  uncompromising  teacher, 
and  since  my  troubles  came  upon  me,  I  have 
endeavored,  to  the  best  of  my  ability,  to  learn 
how  to  make  everything  I  had  left  turn  to  the 
very  best  advantage.  And  I  think  I  have  suc- 
ceeded as  well  as  most  persons  in  making,  by 
industry  and  contrivance,  a  little  go  a  great 
way.  Otherwise  my  children  might  have  ap- 
peared as  ragged  and  neglected  as  those  of 
thousands  of  others  in  my  situation." 

"  Yes,  yes ;"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "  I  see, 
I  see !  And  you  may  thank  your  stars,  that  you 
had  the  good  sense  and  the  resolution  to  learn 
to  work  and  contrive,  after  being  brought  up  to 
do  nothing!  But  since  you  say  you  can  do 
plain  sewing,  and  since  I  see  that  it  is  no'  false 


THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW.  23 

and  idle  boast,  I  can  very  easily  settle  that 
matter.  I  know  of  several  families  who  will  let 
you  have  work  to  do,  and  as  I  am  a  pretty  ex- 
travagant old  fellow  myself,  I  shall  want  you 
to  do  a  good  deal  for  me,  and  then  if  this  lady 
has  a  mind  to  let  you  have  a  little,  we  can  keep 
you  in  employment  the  whole  time.  And  since 
I  am  on  the  subject,  I  may  as  well  tell  you  that 
it  is  not  my  way  to  let  those  who  work  for  me 
starve." 

"  I  thank  you,  sir,  I  thank  you !"  answered  the 
grateful  woman,  as  she  wiped  away  the  first 
tears  of  joy  she  had  shed  for  many  a  day. 
"  You  have  given  me  new  life  by  your  kind- 
ness, and  I  hope  I  may  be  able  to  deserve  it." 

"  Tut,  tut !"  exclaimed  the  old  gentleman, 
dashing  his  hand  across  his  eyes,  "  it  is  nothing ! 
nothing  at  all !  I  am  only  going  to  pay  you  for 
work  1  want  done,  and  if  I  pay  you  better  than 
the  shops,  or  than  a  miser,  whose  business  is  it  ? 
And  now  that  matter  arranged,  if  you  have 
no  objections,  I  should  like  to  hear  a  little  of 
your  story,  and  know  where  you  were  brought 
up." 

"  I  can  certainly  have  no  objections,"  she 


24  THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW. 

replied,  "  but,  to  make  you  understand  all,  I 
shall  be  obliged  to  go  back  a  long  way.  You 
will  find  my  story  a  sad  one,  but  I  suppose  there 
are  thousands  "of  others  who  have  trodden  as 
thorny  a  path  as  myself. 

"  I  was  born  and  educated  in  Savannah.  My 
father  was  an  opulent  merchant  of  that  city,  anc1 
as  I  was  an  only  child,  he  spared  no  pains  01 
expense  to  give  me  every  accomplishment  which 
is  in  the  southern  states,  considered  necessary 
for  a  young  lady  to  possess.  Among  these 
accomplishments,  unfortunately,  nothing  really 
useful  finds  a  place,  for,  in  consequence  of  the 
existing  state  of  society  there,  employment  of 
almost  every  kind  is  considered  degrading. 
Everything  is  done  by  the  blacks,  while  the 
white  population  grow  up  the  most  helpless  and 
indolent  beings  imaginable.  In  this  manner 
was  it  my  misfortune  to  be  educated.  I  liter ' 
ally  knew  not  how  to  prepare  the  simplest  arti- 
cle of  food  which  appeared  upon  my  father's 
table,  or  to  hem  the  pocket  handkerchief  which 
a  slave  was  summoned  to  bring  me,  if  I  had 
chanced  to  leave  it  in  the  next  room. 

"  Thus  totally  unqualified  for  the  duties  of  a 


THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW.  25 

housekeeper,  and  the  responsibilities  of  the 
marriage  state,  at  the  age  of  fifteen  I  became 
the  wife  of  a  merchant  of  Mobile,  and  removed 
with  him  to  that  city.  He  was  an  amiable  and 
upright  man,  of  the  most  regular  business  habits, 
standing  high  in  the  estimation  of  his  fellow- 
citizens,  and  beloved  and  respected  by  all  who  j 
knew  him.  Every  one  prophesied  a  life  of 
felicity,  and  with  every  appearance  of  reason, 
for  my  husband  was  unbounded  in  his  affection 
and  indulgence  toward  me ;  I  was  devotedly 
attached  to  him;  we  were  rich  in  worldly  goods, 
and  happiness  seemed  to  have  marked  us  for  her 
own.  But  such  a  state  of  blessedness  could  not 
long  continue,  and  sorrowful  days  were  in  store 
for  us. 

"  It  was  the  time  when  the  spirit  of  specula- 
tion ran  like  wild-fire  through  our  country, 
blighting  the  hopes  and  ruining  the  fortunes  of 
so  many.  My  father  having  amassed  a  fortune, 
had  long  since  retired  from  business,  but  he  was 
seized  with  the  prevailing  mania,  aad  persuad- 
ing my  husband  to  unite  with  him,  they  both 
hazarded  their  whole  property  in  an  extensive 
cotton  speculation.  At  the  time  they  made  their 


26  THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW. 

contracts,  cotton  bore  unusually  high  prices  in 
the  market,  but  the  general  impression  was  that 
they  would  be  higher  still,  and  they  plunged 
headlong  into  the  enterprise,  certain  of  a  ready 
sale  and  a  splendid  interest.  By-and-by  the 
bubble  burst.  The  fatal  pressure  of  1837  came 
on,  inextricably  deranging  the  mercantile  affairs 
of  the  whole  country,  and  while  all  were  wish- 
ing to  sell,  few  were  able  to  buy.  The  cotton 
in  which  my  husband  and  father  had  invested 
their  all,  lay  dead  in  the  storehouses  of  Europe, 
but  their  contracts  must  be  met,  and  a  forced 
and  ruinous  sale  was  the  consequence. 

"  It  is  needless  to  state  the  result.  They 
shared  the  fate  of  almost  every  merchant  of 
Mobile,  and  of  thousands  of  others  throughout 
the  entire  country,  and  became  bankrupts,  beg- 
gars. This  sudden  and  unexpected  blow,  acting 
upon  a  constitution  already  enfeebled  by  age 
and  disease,  proved  fatal  to  my  poor  father. 
He  never  held  up  his  head  afterward.  He  was 
immediately  seized  with  a  violent  nervous  fever, 
and  in  three  short  weeks  from  the  day  in  which 
the  failure  of  his  cotton  speculation  was  an- 
nounced to  him,  he  was  in  his  grave. 


THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW.  27 

"  My  husband  sacrificed  all,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  a  few  hundred  dollars,  to  his  creditors. 
We  retrenched  our  expenses  in  every  possible 
way,  or  rather  he  did  so,  for  I  was  like  a  help- 
less and  terrified,  but  passive  child,  incapable  of 
thinking  or  acting,  and  burdening  and  discoura- 
ging my  husband  by  my  helplessness  and  in- 
efficiency, instead  of  aiding  and  inspiring  him 
by  my  energy  and  courage. 

"  At  last  all  was  definitely  arranged.  Our 
house  and  furniture  were  parted  with,  our  slaves 
were  all  sold,  and  our  expenditures  reduced  to 
the  lowest  possible  amount.  We  rented  a  small 
and  cheap  house,  hired  one  woman  to  undertake 
the  management  of  our  household  affairs,  and 
assist  in  taking  care  of  my  two  children,  and  we 
lived  in  the  cheapest  and  plainest  style. 

"  But  trifling  as  our  expenditures  now  were, 
we  soon  found  that  to  those  who  had  literally 
no  income,  they  were  formidable  and  alarming. 
Our  little  money  was  fast  dwindling  away,  and 
my  husband,  despairing  of  doing  anything  for 
our  support  in  Mobile,  resolved  on  removing  to 
New  York.  He  was  a  native  of  this  city,  and 
had  spent  the  earlier  portion  of  his  life  here, 


28  THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW. 

and  it  was  not  until  after  the  death  of  his  pa- 
rents that  he  removed  to  the  south.  He  was, 
therefore,  not  without  the  hope  of  meeting  with 
ultimate  success  in  the  home  of  his  youth,  for 
his  parents  had  left  some  warm  friends  whom 
he  hoped  to  discover,  and  who  would  un- 
doubtedly interest  themselves  so  much  in  his 
behalf,  as  to  aid  his  endeavors  to  procure  some 
honorable  and  profitable  employment.  Among 
these  friends  was  one  who  had  been  the  play- 
mate of  his  mother  in  her  childhood,  and  the 
companion  of  her  youth,  and  who,  it  was  more 
than  suspected,  had  for  her  sake  always  remain- 
ed unmarried.  We  had  learned  that  he  had  a 
few  years  since  returned  from  the  East  Indies, 
with  an  enormous  fortune,  and  it  was  on  him 
that  my  husband  most  relied  for  advice  and 
assistance. 

"  We  arrived  in  New  York,  but,  alas !  the 
blight  had  reached  here  also.  Business  was 
prostrated,  and  thousands,  thrown  out  of  em- 
ployment, w?ere  suffering  for  the  commonest 
necessaries  of  life.  The  few  friends  whom  my 
husband  was  able  to  discover,  were  too  much 
absorbed  in  their  own  difficulties,  to  attend  to 


THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW.  29 

his  ',  and,  although  some  promised  him  their 
assistance,  none  rendered  him  the  least.  The 
one  on  whom  he  most  relied,  the  early  friend  of 
his  mother,  was  unfortunately  not  to  be  found. 
At  length,  however,  we  learned  that  he  had 
been  two  or  three  years  travelling  in  Europe, 
and  no  one  knew  when  he  would  return. 

"  Thus  every  hope  seemed  to  be  cut  off  when 
my  husband  providentially  obtained  a  clerkship 
in  a  small  retail  dry-goods  store,  at  the  miserable 
salary  of  four  hundred  dollars  a  year.  But  it 
was  better  than  nothing,  and  we  immediately 
arranged  our  affairs  in  accordance  with  it.  We 
hired  the  upper  part  of  a  small  house,  at  a  rent 
of  one  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  a  year,  trusting, 
although  all  the  necessaries  of  life  were  then 
enormously  dear,  to  be  able  to  live  on  the  re- 
maining two  hundred  and  fifty. 

"  As  keeping  a  domestic  was  entirely  out  of 
the  question,  I  was  compelled  to  the  arduous 
and  untried  task  of  doing  my  own  work,  with- 
out any  assistance.  And  a  bitter  task  did  it 
prove  to  me !  With  the  little  money  remaining 
from  the  wreck  of  our  property  in  Mobile,  we 
had  purchased  a  few  indispensable  articles  of 


30  THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW. 

furniture  ;  and  those  I  contrived  to  manage  tol- 
erably well.  But  when  it  came  to  the  daily  rou- 
tine of  necessary  but  nameless  household  duties, 
I  was  entirely  in  the  dark.  I  knew  not  where 
to  begin,  nor  what  to  do.  By  rising  very  early, 
my  husband  contrived  to  do  our  marketing ;  but 
how  to  dress  and  prepare  what  he  furnished,  I 
knew  not ;  and  the  cheap  and  miserable  articles 
to  which  our  poverty  obliged  us  to  confine  our- 
selves, were  rendered  still  more  miserable  by  my 
entire  ignorance  of  the  art  of  cooking.  For 
many,  many  weeks,  I  can  truly  say,  we  had  not 
a  meal  on  our  table  that  was  not  spoiled  by  my 
mismanagement.  My  husband  said  everything 
by  way  of  encouragement,  assuring  me  I  should 
soon  learn  how  to  manage  better:  but  I  was 
almost  in  despair.  My  children,  too,  began  to 
look  shabby  and  neglected  ;  for,  occupied  as  I 
was  the  whole  of  my  time  in  doing  that  which, 
had  I  known  how  to  work,  need  not  have  taken 
but  a  few  hours  a  day,  I  had  no  opportunity  to 
repair  their  clothes  as  they  began  to  show  signs 
of  wearing  out ;  and  I  drudged  at  my  daily  toil 
with  a  heavy  heart. 
"  At  last,  an  old  lady,  a  poor  widow,  occupy- 


THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW.  31 

ing  an  apartment  in  our  house,  \vho  saw  how 
things  went  on,  and  easily  divined  the  cause, 
one  day  came  into  my  room  as  I  was  crying 
over  my  wash-tub,  my  fingers  bleeding  in  twenty 
places,  and  kindly  offered  to  assist  me,  and  to 
show  me  how  to  do  any  kind  of  work  with 
which  1  might  be  unacquainted.  Never  did 
words  fall  more  sweetly  on  my  ear  !  She  seem- 
ed like  an  angel  sent  from  heaven  to  my  relief! 
I  readily  and  gratefully  accepted  her  kind  offer ; 
and  before  she  had  been  with  me  one  hour,  I 
had  opened  my  whole  heart,  and  told  her  all 
my  troubles.  That  day  I  was  able,  for  the  first 
time,  to  set  before  my  husband  a  well-cooked 
and  palatable  dinner.  My  meat  was,  to  be  sure, 
of  the  cheapest  quality,  but  good  old  Mrs.  Mor- 
ris had  contrived  by  her  skilful  management,  to 
make  an  excellent  dish  ;  and  never  was  I  more 
pleased  than  I  was  to  see  the  relish  with  which 
he  partook  of  it. 

"  From  that  day  I  began  to  improve  in  my 
spirits,  and  in  the  management  of  my  household 
affairs.  Mrs.  Morris,  who  was  an  adept  at  all 
kinds  of  housework,  and  seemed  to  know  the 
best  and  easiest  way  of  doing  everything,  watch- 


32  THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW. 

ed  over  and  directed  my  awkward  efforts  with 
all  a  mother's  care  and  tenderness,  encouraging 
me  when  my  spirits  were  sinking,  and  lending 
a  ready  hand  whenever  she  saw  that  it  was 
needed.  Under  a  guidance  so  kind  and  efficient, 
I  soon  learned  to  perform  my  work  in  less  than 
half  the  time  it  had  formerly  taken,  and  to  per- 
form it  well.  She  taught  me  how  to  repair  my 
husband's  and  my  children's  clothes,  and  to  make 
the  most  of  small  means.  As  I  advanced  in 
knowledge  and  experience,  new  hope  seemed 
to  dawn  upon  me,  and  I  began  to  look  forward 
with  confidence  to  better  times.  But,  alas !  I 
was  destined  soon  to  learn  that  my  misfortunes 
were  but  just  begun. 

"  My  husband,  who  was  the  only  clerk  in  the 
store  in  which  he  was  engaged,  was  often 
obliged  to  carry  parcels  for  customers  from  one 
end  of  the  city  to  the  other.  Long  unused  to 
the  rigors  of  a  northern  winter,  and  with  a  con- 
stitution broken  and  enervated  by  a  protracted 
residence  in  a  southern  climate,  he  was  quite 
unfitted  for  such  a  service,  particularly  in  the 
bad  weather  to  which  we  were  that  winter 
more  than  usually  subject.  On  one  cold,  damp, 


THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW.  33 

day,  when  the  melting  snow  was,  at  the  cross- 
ings, nearly  over  shoes,  he  was  obliged  to  carry 
a  parcel  for  a  lady  who  resided  more  than  a 
mile  from  the  store.  He  had  been  for  two  or 
three  days  more  than  usually  unwell,  and  his 
boots,  unfortunately,  admitting  the  water,  he 
was  seized  with  a  violent  cold,  which  termina- 
ted in  an  inflammation  of  the  lungs.  After  a 
long  struggle,  apparently  between  life  and  death, 
he  at  length  partially  recovered.  But  an  ob- 
stinate and  hollow  cough,  and  a  hectic  flush  on 
his  sunken  cheeks,  plainly  indicated  to  those 
who  were  more  familiar  with  the  disease  than  I, 
that  he  was  in  the  first  stage  of  a  consumption. 
Eager,  however,  to  replace,  if  possible,  the  sums 
expended  during  his  illness,  he  returned  to  his 
business  with  renewed  zeal;  and  I,  strangely 
blind  as  I  was  to  the  fatal  indications  of  disease 
which  were  but  too  visible  to  others,  was  again 
filled  with  hope  and  happiness. 

Two  or  three  months  went  by :  spring  came — 
the  time  of  buds  and  blossoms  —  and  it  became 
apparent,  even  to  my  unpractised  eye,  that  the 
health  of  my  husband  was  fast  declining.  The 
hollow  cough  had  become  more  frequent  and 


34  THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW. 

more  violent,  the  hectic  had  deepened  on  his 
sunken  cheek,  and  his  dark  blue  eye  wore  a 
startling  and  unnatural  brightness.  I  could  not 
but  see  that  his  respiration  was  quick  and  labor- 
ed, and  that  his  once  elastic  step  was  now  feeble 
and  faltering.  I  was,  as  it  were  in  a  moment, 
thoroughly  awakened  to  his  danger,  and,  in  the 
utmost  alarm,  urged  and  entreated  him  to  relin- 
quish his  business,  if  it  were  but  for  a  week,  and 
instantly  to  seek  medical  advice.  He  yielded 
to  my  entreaties  so  far  as  to  apply  to  a  physi- 
cian ;  but  no  arguments  or  prayers  could  pre- 
vail upon  him  to  absent  himself  from  his  employ- 
ment even  for  one  day. 

"  *  My  children  and  my  wife  must  have 
bread !'  he  would  exclaim ;  '  and  I  cannot  af- 
ford time  to  be  sick !  Besides,  I  do  not  consider 
it  necessary  to  lay  by,  for  I  apprehend  no  real 
danger :  the  unfavorable  symptoms  which  so 
alarm  you  —  this  cough  which,  I  acknowledge, 
is  rather  troublesome,  and  this  temporary  debil- 
ity, are  only  the  relics  of  my  fever,  and  will  all 
wear  away  as  soon  as  warm  weather  returns. 
This  cold,  changeable  climate  does  not  seem  to 
agree  with  me  as  well  as  formerly.  But  do  not 


THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW.  36 

alarm  yourself,  my  dear  wife,  summer  will  set 
me  up  again !' 

"  Half  deceived  by  his  assurances,  I  ceased  to 
oppose  his  continued  attention  to  business ;  and 
resolutely  shutting  my  eyes  to  the  reality  that 
he  was  every  day  becoming  weaker  and  weaker, 
I  looked  forward  with  impatient  longing  to  the 
appearance  of  summer,  which  I  vainly  fancied 
was  to  prove  an  elixir  of  life  to  the  poor  in- 
valid. 

"  The  wished-for  season  at  length  came,  but, 
alas,  it  brought  no  healing  on  its  wings.  Instead 
of  gaining  health  and  strength  beneath  its  balmy 
influence,  Henry  seemed  hastening  with  re- 
doubled rapidity  to  the  grave.  Hope  died  away 
in  my  heart,  and  after  again  vainly  endeavoring 
to  induce  him  to  remain  at  home  when  he 
could  scarcely  drag  himself  to  the  store,  I  went 
myself  to  his  employer,  and  entreated  his  assist- 
ance in  persuading  my  husband  to  give  up  la- 
bor, and  endeavor  to  regain  his  health.  He  was 
a  charitable,  benevolent  man,  and  though  doing 
but  a  meager  business,  he  performed  a  deed  of 
kindness  and  generosity,  which  I  shall  never 
forget.  He  not  only  persuaded  him  to  give  up 


36  THE  MEPCHANT'S  WIDOW. 

business,  but,  although  the  year  for  which  he 
had  engaged  with  him  yet  lacked  more  than 
three  months  of  its  expiration,  he  actually  in- 
sisted on  paying  him  for  the  whole  period. 
Henry  at  first  resolutely  declined  the  generous 
offer,  but  the  absolute  want  which  was  staring 
us  in  the  face,  and  the  continued  entreaties  of 
his  kind  employer,  at  length  overcame  his 
scruples,  and  he  yielded. 

"  Rest  and  careful  nursing,  seemed  for  a  while 
to  realize  our  hopes,  and  Henry  for  a  few  days 
appeared  better.  But  it  was  only  a  delusive 
amendment,  and  he  was  soon  unable  to  leave 
his  bed  for  more  than  an  hour  or  two  in  a  day. 
Our  money  meanwhile  was  rapidly  fading  away, 
and  it  became  imperiously  necessary  that  we 
should  seek  a  cheaper  tenement  than  the  one 
we  then  occupied.  After  much  searching,  I 
found  this  one  in  which  I  now  reside.  It  was  a 
miserable  place  compared  with  our  former  one, 
but  we  were  too  poor  to  hesitate  long,  and  giv- 
ing up  the  pleasant  dwelling  where  we  had 
promised  ourselves  so  much  quiet  enjoyment, 
and  bidding  a  tearful  adieu  to  kind  Mrs.  Morris, 
who  had  for  months  been  our  good  angel,  we 


THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW.  37 

removed  here.  Henry  had  not  seen  this  place 
until  he  was  brought  here,  and  it  seemed  as  if 
its  comfortless,  desolate  appearance  struck  a 
blight  to  his  heart. 

"'This  is  a  sad  contrast,  Emily,'  he  exclaim- 
ed, 'to  your  youthful  home,  and  to  the  home 
you  had  a  right  to  expect  with  me.  But  it  will 
do  for  me  the  little  while  I  have  to  live,  and  I 
shall  never  leave  it  till  I  am  borne  away  to  my 
last  earthly  dwelling.' 

"  I  would  have  combated  this  mournful  pre- 
sentiment, but  when  I  tried  to  speak,  the  words 
died  away  upon  my  lips,  for  there  was  an  ex- 
pression in  his  eye  which  carried  a  fearful  con- 
viction of  its  truth  to  my  heart.  Yet  I  endeav- 
ored to  cheer  his  sinking  spirits,  although  the 
load  upon  my  own,  well  nigh  weighed  me  to 
the  earth.  What  was  to  become  of  us  when  the 
prop  which  had  so  long  supported  us  was  re- 
moved, I  dared  not  trust  myself  to  think.  Al- 
ready I  saw  myself  a  helpless,  houseless  widow, 
surrounded  by  hungry  little  ones,  who  in  vain 
looked  to  me  for  a  mouthful  of  bread,  and  as  I 
saw  no  way  of  relieving  their  wants,  the  world 
grew  dark  around  me. 

4 


38  THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW. 

"  But  present  evils  were  too  pressing  to  permit 
an  indulgence  in  anticipated  ones.  Our  money 
was  now  almost  gone,  and  I  must  seek  some 
means  of  procuring  more,  or  absolute  beggary 
would  soon  be  our  fate.  But  what  could  I  do  ? 
My  husband,  now  almost  helpless,  required  my 
constant  attention;  my  children,  feeble  and 
sickly  from  unwholesome  food  and  too  much  con- 
finement, were  a  perpetual  source  of  care  and 
anxiety,  while  my  own  health — for  I  was  soon 
again  to  become  a  mother  —  was  extremely 
delicate.  Notwithstanding  all  this,  however,  I 
contrived,  after  much  difficulty,  to  procure  a  little 
sewing  from  a  ready-made-linen  store ;  but  so 
little  time  could  I  spare  for  the  prosecution  of 
my  work,  and  so  miserable  was  the  remunera- 
tion I  received  for  it  when  it  was  finished,  that  I 
almost  despaired.  With  my  utmost  exertions,  I 
could  scarcely  earn  six  shillings  a  week,  and 
what  was  that  among  so  many  ?  But  I  toiled 
on,  determined  to  do  all  I  could,  and  trust  the 
rest  to  God.  How  often,  while  I  have  sat  almost 
fainting  over  my  midnight  labor,  did  Henry 
groan  in  anguish  at  the  destitution  which  com- 
pelled me  to  a  toil  for  which  I  was  so  unequal  j 


THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW.  39 

and  how  bitterly  did  he  lament  the  protracted 
absence  of  that  friend  of  his  mother,  from  whom 
he  had  anticipated  so  much  assistance  and  sym- 
pathy. 

"  If  Edward  Temple  were  but  here,"  he 
would  exclaim, "  I  am  sure  that,  for  my  mother's 
sake,  he  would  pity  and  relieve  us  !" 

"  Edward  Temple !"  exclaimed  the  old  gen- 
tleman, suddenly  starting  from  his  seat.  "  And 
•who,  for  God's  sake  tell  me,  was  your  hus- 
band?" 

"  Henry  Temple  Seton,"  answered  the  poor 
woman,  surprised  and  startled  at  the  abruptness 
of  the  question. 

"  And  was  the  maiden  name  of  his  mother 
Amelia  Mansfield  ?"  again  demanded  her  ques- 
tioner, as,  his  whole  frame  shaking  with  emo- 
tion, he  convulsively  grasped  the  back  of  his 
chair. 

"  It  was,"  she  again  replied. 

"  And  did  Henry  Seton  die,  and  here  ?"  he 
once  more  inquired,  in  a  voice  so  choked  and 
husky,  as  to  be  scarcely  intelligible. 

"He  did," was  again  the  short  and  mournful 
reply. 


40  THE  MERCHANT'S  WBDOW. 

"And  can  it  be,"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
sinking  back  into  his  chair,  while  the  tears 
rolled  unrestrainedly  down  his  cheeks,  "  can  it 
be  that  the  only  child  of  the  wealthy,  the  idol- 
ized Amelia,  was  brought  to  this "?  Can  it  be 
that  while  I  was  wandering  through  Europe, 
almost  without  an  object,  recklessly  spending 
my  thousands,  that  the  son  of  her  whom  I  would 
have  guarded  as  the  apple  of  my  eye,  was  dying 
of  want  and  misery  in  a  home  like  this  ?  Oh, 
why  was  I  not  here  to  save  him !" 

"You  are  then  Edward  Temple?  Thank 
God !"  exclaimed  the  poor  woman,  starting  from 
her  seat,  and  abruptly  approaching  him  j  but  a 
bitter  recollection  seemed  at  the  same  moment 
to  cross  her  mind,  for  a  sudden  paleness  over- 
spread her  countenance,  and  as  she  turned  away, 
there  was  a  hopeless  despair  in  the  words  which 
fell  in  hoarse  and  unnatural  tones  from  her  lips. 
"  It  is  too  late  !  it  is  too  late  !  Oh,  my  hus- 
band, my  dear  Henry,  you  are  gone,  and  what 
avails  it  now  !  What  avails  it  that  the  friend 
so  long  wished  for  has  at  last  arrived,  when  the 
clods  of  the  valley  are  lying  heavily  on  your 
bosom !"  and,  throwing  her  arras  over  the  table 


THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW.  41 

"by  which  she  had  been  seated,  she  bowed  her 
head  upon  them,  and  her  groans  and  convulsive 
sobs  shook  her  whole  frame. 

Mr.  Temple,  for  it  was  indeed  he,  approached 
the  weeping  woman,  and  laying  his  hand  kindly 
on  her  shoulder,  "  Do  not  weep  so  bitterly," 
said  he ;  "  it  is  indeed  too  late  for  him  who  is 
gone,  and  who  was  so  dear  to  you,  but  it  is  not 
too  late  for  yourself,  and  your  young  orphans. 
Look  up,  my  dear  Mrs.  Seton,  and  be  comforted. 
You  shall  see  better  days." 

Soothed  by  the  kindness  of  the  benevolent  old 
man,  Mrs.  Seton  gradually  resumed  her  calm- 
ness. 

"  Oh,  if  he  could  but  have  lived  to  see  this 
hour,"  she  exclaimed,  "  how  would  his  heart 
have  blessed  you,  and  how  happy  should  I  have 
been !  But  God  willed  it  otherwise,  and  I  will 
try  to  be  resigned." 

"  Ah,  we  cannot  have  everything  to  suit  our- 
selves," answered  Mr.  Temple,  with  a  sigh ;  "  I 
believe  it  would  have  made  my  old  heart  too 
blessed  to  have  become  a  father  to  the  child  of 
my  Amelia ;  I  call  her  mine,  for  we  were 
brought  up  together,  and  well  and  truly  did  we 


42  THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW. 

love  each  other.  And  though  at  last  she  chose 
another  for  her  husband,  instead  of  me,  yet  I 
could  never  find  it  in  my  heart  to  love  her  the 
less  dearly.  Ah,  it  was  a  sad  disappointment, 
and  I  have  never  allowed  myself  to  love  another 
human  being  since.  But  that  time  is  past,  and 
these  little  ones  who  would  have  been  so  ten- 
derly cherished  by  her,  shall  be  dearly  and 
fondly  cherished  by  me  also.  Come,  here  my 
children,"  he  continued,  "  and  let  me  see  if  I 
can  trace  her  well-remembered  likeness  in  any 
of  your  young  faces !" 

He  held  out  his  hand  toward  them,  and  the 
two  children  who  had  sat  mute  and  tearful 
spectators  of  the  passing  scene,  timidly  ap- 
proached. He  gently  laid  his  hands  upon  their 
heads,  and  as  he  gazed  long  and  silently  upon 
them,  many  a  youthful  and  long-buried  memory 
came  back  upon  his  heart,  while  unheeded  tears 
trickled  slowly  down  his  furrowed  cheeks. 
"  Yes,"  said  he  at  length,  tenderly  stroking  the 
bright  head  of  the  eldest,  "  Yes,  here  are  the 
same  soft  ringlets,  and  the  same  mild  and  pen- 
sive blue  eyes  that  so  went  to  my  heart  when  I 
was  but  a  boy.  Ah,  I  have  often  seen  them  in 


THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW.  43 

my  dreams,  but  never  until  now  since  I  last  be- 
held Amelia,  have  such  eyes  looked  upon  me  in 
my  waking  hours.  I  could  almost  fancy  myself 
a  boy  again,  and  this  sweet  child  my  early  play- 
mate. What  is  her  name  1  I  hope  it  is  Amelia ; 
I  could  not  bear  to  call  her  by  any  other." 

"  Yes,  it  is  Amelia,"  answered  Mrs.  Seton ; 
"  Henry  always  felt  a  melancholy  pleasure  in 
calling  her  by  the  name  of  a  mother,  whom  he 
loved  and  mourned  with  more  than  filial  tender- 
ness. She  was  a  rare  specimen  of  a  mother, 
and  Henry  never  could  forget  her  loss." 

"  He  would  not  have  deserved  to  be  her  son, 
if  he  could  have  forgotten  her !"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Temple,  warmly ;  and  after  a  pause,  he  musing- 
ly added  :  "  And  so  he  honored  her  memory  as 
he  should  do,  did  he  1  I  wish  the  boy  had  lived 
till  my  old  eyes  had  been  blest  with  the  sight 
of  him !  But  there  is  no  use  in  wishing  back 
the  dead !  It  is  better  to  think  how  we  may 
best  discharge  our  duty  toward  the  living.  And 
now  let  us  have  no  more  saddening  thoughts  to- 
day :  you  shall  finish  your  melancholy  tale  some 
other  time,  but  at  present  let  us  think  rather 
how  we  shall  dispose  of  these  dear  little  ones, 


44  THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW. 

so  that  their  father  and  my  Amelia,  may  look 
down  from  heaven  with  a  smile." 

Mrs.  Seton  strove  in  vain  to  give  utterance 
to  the  feelings  that  were  swelling  at  her  heart, 
and  Mr.  Temple,  observing  her  inability  to 
speak,  exclaimed,  "  Leave  it  all  to  me,  leave  it 
all  to  me !  I  am  an  old  man,  and  know  better 
how  to  arrange  these  things  than  you  do.  But 
remember  I  can  bear  no  contradictions  in  the 
matter;  I  am  used  to  having  everything  my 
own  way,  and  if  you  do  not  want  the  sin  of 
breaking  an  old  man's  heart  lying  on  your  con- 
science, you  will  not  oppose  me.  But  to  the 
point,  I  have  a  great,  overgrown  house  in 
Broadway,  furnished  from  basement  to  attic 
like  a  palace,  and  no  one  to  look  after  it  and 
see  that  it  is  taken  proper  care  of.  I  am  an  old 
bachelor,  and  as  I  know  nothing  about  these 
things,  have  to  trust  everything  to  my  house- 
keeper. I  have  wished  a  thousand  times  that  I 
had  a  daughter  to  look  after  the  poor,  lonely  old 
man,  and  cheer  his  solitude,  and  govern  his 
servants,  but  Heaven  never  ordained  so  great  a 
blessing  for  me.  Now,  though  you  are  not  my 
daughter,  you  were  the  wife  of  Amelia's  son, 


THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW.  45 

and  that  makes  me  feel  almost  as  if  you  were 
my  own  child.  So,  without  any  more  circum- 
locution, you  must  come  and  live  with  me,  and 
I  shall  soon  learn  to  believe  that  you  are  my 
daughter.  Your  children  will  fill  up  a  gap  in 
my  heart,  that  I  thought  would  never  be  filled 
again,  and  I  shall  grow  younger  every  time  I 
look  back  at  them.  Do  not  hesitate,  for  my 
heart  is  set  upon  your  compliance." 

A  thousand  varying  emotions  were  painted 
on  the  sweet  expressive  face  of  Mrs.  Seton,  as 
with  a  faltering  voice  she  at  last  attempted  to 
reply :  "  I  feel  all  your  great  kindness,  Mr. 
Temple ;  believe  me,  I  feel  it  all.  But  how  can 
I  think  of  burdening  you  with  myself,  and  these 
three  little  children  ?  No,  it  will  be  sufficient 
to  win  the  gratitude  of  my  whole  life  if  you 
adhere  to  your  first  kind  proposal  to  furnish  me 
with  constant  employment ;  I  can  then  support 
myself  and  little  ones  in  comfort,  and " 

"  Support  yourself!"  interrupted  Mr.  Temple, 
while  a  bright  glow  overspread  his  sallow 
cheeks.  "  Can  you  suppose  that  I  would  think 
for  a  moment  of  allowing  the  widowed  daughter 
and  helpless  grandchildren  of  Amelia  Mans- 


46  THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW. 

field,  to  live  on  in  a  state  of  toil  and  dependance, 
while  I  am  as  rich  as  an  eastern  nabob,  and 
have  more  money  than  I  know  what  to  do  with  1 
And  then  to  talk  of  burdening  me  !  Why,  have 
I  not  told  you  that  I  am  a  lonely  old  man,  with 
nobody  to  care  whether  I  live  or  die,  only  so  far 
as  their  own  interests  are  concerned  ?  No,  no, 
say  no  more  against  my  plan,  unless  you  would 
have  me  think  you  do  it  to  heighten  the  favor 
you  would  confer  upon  me,  by  living  in  my 
house,  and  making  an  old  man  happier  than  he 
has  been  since  he  was  a  boy.  Give  me  your 
consent,  or  I  shall  have  to  carry  you  away  by 
force  !" 

Who  could  longer  withstand  such  kind  en- 
treaties 1  Not  the  wreeping  and  grateful  Mrs. 
Seton ;  and  no  sooner  was  a  consent  wrung 
from  her  hesitating  lips,  than  Mr.  Temple  start- 
ed up  in  the  utmost  joy,  and  bidding  Mrs.  Seton 
pack  up  such  things  as  she  wished  particularly 
to  preserve,  and  to  leave  all  the  rest  to  some 
poor  neighbor,  hastened  away  to  make  prepara- 
tions for  the  reception  of  his  new-found  daugh- 
ter, and  to  bring  a  carriage. 


THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW.  47 

"  I  do  not  intend  to  give  you  time  to  change 
your  mind,"  said  he, "  so  I  shall  be  back  in  two 
hours ;  and  perhaps  this  lady,  whose  pardon  I 
beg  for  having  so  rudely  suffered  her  to  sit  un- 
noticed all  the  morning,  will,  if  she  is  not  en- 
gaged, have  the  kindness  to  remain  with  you 
until  my  return." 

As  may  be  supposed,  I  was  too  much  interest- 
ed in  the  denouement  to  think  of  hesitating,  and 
so  signifying  my  perfect  willingness  to  remain, 
Mr.  Temple  departed. 

The  next  two  hours  were  busily  spent.  Mrs. 
Seton  occupying  herself  with  selecting  a  few 
articles  that  were  dear  to  her  as  memorials  of 
other  days,  or  such  as  were  at  present  quite  in- 
dispensable to  the  decent  appearance  of  herself 
and  children  ;  while  the  two  eldest  of  the  little 
ones,  busied  themselves  with  playing  with  the 
younger,  or  in  skipping  about  the  room,  delight- 
ed at  the  prospect  of  riding  in  a  carriage,  and 
of  going  to  live  with  the  dear,  kind  old  gentle- 
man. 

When  Mrs.  Seton  had  completed  her  arrange- 
ments, she  sat  down  and  penned  a  note  to  an 
excellent  but  very  poor  woman  living  in  another 


48  THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW. 

part  of  the  house,  but  who  was  then  absent 
drudging  at  her  daily  task  of  washing;  after 
thanking  her  for  the  many  kindnesses  she  had 
received  at  her  hands,  she  begged  her  to  accept 
of  the  few  articles  of  furniture  she  had  been 
able  to  save  from  the  grasp  of  the  pawnbroker, 
and  the  little  clothing  she  left  behind  her.  Then 
telling  her  she  should  soon  hear  from  her,  she 
bade  her  farewell.  This  note  was  hardly  in- 
sinuated under  the  door  of  the  poor  washer- 
woman, when  Mr.  Temple  returned  with  a 
hackney-coach. 

"  I  did  not  bring  my  own  carriage,"  said  he, 
"  lest  my  servants  should  snuff  at  the  miserable 
dwelling  which  has  so  long  been  your  abode." 

The  kind  old  man  was  all  impatience  until 
they  were  ready  to  start ;  then,  putting  a  card 
into  my  hand,  and  saying,  "  You  will  call  in  a 
few  days  to  see  how  my  children  like  their  new 
home,  and  give  me  an  opportunity  to  thank  you 
for  your  kindness  to  them  7"  we  separated, 
Mrs.  Seton  and  her  happy  family  to  exchange 
the  miserable  dwelling  of  poverty  and  sorrow, 
for  the  stately  abode  of  wealth  and  luxury, 


THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW.  49 

And  I  to  plod  my  way  home  full  of  wonder  at 
the  strange  events  of  the  day. 

I  looked  at  the  card,  "  Edward  Temple,  No. 
Broadway,"  —  and  recollected  the  dwel- 
ling, as  being  one  of  the  most  splendid  in  that 
noble  street. 

"  The  romance  of  real  life  is  indeed  stranger 
than  that  of  fiction !"  I  unconsciously  exclaimed, 
as  I  went  dreamingly  along,  running  against  the 
grown  persons,  and  stumbling  over  the  children 
whom  I  encountered  in  my  way :  "  who  after 
this,  would  disbelieve  in  an  overruling  and  pro- 
tecting Providence  ?" 
5 


50  THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW, 


CHAPTER  III. 

"  Who  wants 

A  sequel  may  read  on  :  the  plain  discourse 
Which  follows,  may  supply  the  place  of  one.5' 

IT  was  somewhat  less  than  three  weeks  after 
the  important  and  happy  alteration  in  the  cir^ 
cumstances  of  Mrs.  Seton  and  her  young  orphans 
had  taken  place,  that,  judging  a  sufficient  period 
had  elapsed  to  allow  the  excitement  and  novelty 
of  change  to  wear  off,  I  thought  I  might  venture 
to  accept  the  invitation  of  Mr.  Temple,  and  call 
on  his  adopted  children. 

As  may  be  supposed,  I  felt  some  delicacy  on 
the  subject,  and  some  uncertainty  whether  the 
wealthy  and  cherished  Mrs.  Seton  would  feel 
gratified  at  receiving  a  visit  from  one  who  had 
seen  her  in  the  lowest  depths  of  poverty  and 
wretchedness.  It  was  possible  she  might  shun 
a  contact  with  everything  and  every  person 
which  would  recall  the  memory  of  those  days. 


THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW.  51 

Nevertheless,  "  I  will  go,"  thought  I ;  "  I  wish 
to  see  whether  she  is  able  to  bear  prosperity, 
and  whether  her  present  conduct  and  feelings 
belie  the  language  so  plainly  expressed  in  her 
sweet  and  modest  countenance!" 

I  soon  reached  the  abode  of  Mr.  Temple ; 
and,  sending  in  my  card  by  the  servant  who 
answered  the  bell,  was  immediately  ushered  into 
a  spacious  and  lofty  drawing-room.  It  was  fur- 
nished with  all  the  elegance  and  splendor  that 
taste  and  wealth  could  command.  I  was  scarcely 
seated  when  Mr.  Temple  entered  the  room,  lead- 
ing the  little  Amelia  by  the  hand,  and  introdu- 
cing Mrs.  Seton.  I  was  warmly  and  cordially 
welcomed  by  both  Mr.  Temple  and  his  daughter; 
.and,  our  first  friendly  greetings  over,  I  had  leis- 
ure more  particularly  to  observe  Mrs.  Seton.  My 
first  impression  was  that  I  should  scarcely  have 
known  her,  so  much  did  she  appear  changed ; 
for  if  I  had  admired  her  sweet  countenance  when 
I  found  her  surrounded  by  want  and  misery,  I 
was  now  absolutely  startled  at  its  extreme  love- 
liness. A  moment's  survey,  however,  assured 
me  that  it  still  wore  the  same  sweet  and  hum- 
ble expression  which  had  so  interested  me  then, 


52  THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW. 

but  a  calm  and  grateful  happiness  had  now 
added  its  finishing  charm;  and,  as  I  met  the 
soft  and  melting  beams  of  her  large  dark  eyes, 
I  never  more  sensibly  felt  the  truth  of  the  say- 
ing, that  there  is  no  beautifier  of  the  human 
countenance  like  happiness. 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Temple,  "  I  am  glad  you 
are  come !  I  was  almost  afraid  you  were  offend- 
ed at  my  unceremonious  leave-taking  the  other 
day.  Emily,  too,  has  been  quite  anxious  on  the 
subject ;  and  had  we  known  your  address,  we 
should  have  called  on  you  long  before  this  time. 
However,  I  comforted  her  and  myself  by  the 
thought,  that  a  lady  who  would  take  such  an 
interest  in  a  fellow  -creature  who  was  in  distress, 
would  not  be  likely  to  take  exceptions  at  any 
seeming  omissions  in  the  first  moments  of  hap- 
piness. But  how  do  you  like  my  daughter's 
looks  ?  —  for  you  know  I  have  installed  myself 
in  all  the  titles  and  privileges  of  a  father  and 
grandfather.  —  Has  she  not  improved  wonder- 
fully in  health  1  And  how  do  you  like  my  sweet 
little  Amelia's  looks  ?"  he  continued,  tenderly 
kissing  the  beautiful  and  happy-looking  child, 
as  she  sat  on  his  lap  with  her  head  fondly  nes- 


THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW.  53 

tied  against  his  bosom,  and  her  little  hand  oc- 
casionally raised  to  smooth  his  wrinkled  cheek. 

I  was  proceeding  to  express  my  delight  at  the 
evident  improvement  in  their  health  and  appear- 
ance, when  Henry,  the  eldest  boy,  came  gallop- 
ing into  the  room,  on  "  grandpapa's"  gold- 
headed  cane,  and  bounding  up  to  the  side  of  the 
old  gentleman,  put  up  his  pouting  lips  for  a 
kiss,  which  having  received  and  returned  with 
interest,  he  darted  toward  his  mother,  and  cry- 
ing, "  And  you  too,  ma !"  gave  her  a  rough  but 
affectionate  salute  on  both  cheeks,  and  galloped 
off  again  as  happy  as  a  lord.  As  the  eyes  of 
the  mother  and  Mr.  Temple,  followed  the 
beautiful  boy,  it  was  difficult  to  determine 
which  countenance  expressed  the  most  pride 
and  pleasure. 

I  sat  silently  enjoying  this  domestic  scene, 
and  as  Mr.  Temple  again  turned  toward  me,  his 
face  beaming  with  happiness  and  benevolence, 
I  could  not  forbear  congratulating  him  also  on 
his  improved  appearance. 

"And  why  shouldn't  I  look  well  when  I 
have  everything  to  make  me  do  so?" answered 
he,  looking  affectionately  toward  Mrs.  Seton, 
5* 


64  THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW. 

"  Why,  I  am  the  happiest  old  man  alive,  and 
have  grown  younger  every  day  since  I  have  had 
somebody  to  live  for  and  to  care  for  me !" 

Mrs.  Seton  seemed  too  happy  for  words,  but 
the  gratitude  and  affection  which  accompanied 
her  answering  look  to  Mr.  Temple,  and  the 
single  tear  which  started  from  either  eye,  and 
fell  upon  her  lap,  were  an  eloquent  and  gratify- 
ing  reply. 

"  Emily  promises  me,"  continued  Mr.  Temple, 
"  that  she  will  not  be  inveigled  away  from  me 
by  any  other  friends,  and  it  is  astonishing  how 
many  there  are,  who,  since  she  came  to  live 
with  me,  and  it  is  known  that  I  consider  her  as 
my  daughter,  have  discovered  that  they  always 
felt  a  great  and  friendly  interest  in  her.  And  it 
is  astonishing,  too,  what  unaccountable  difficul- 
ties prevented  them  all  from  visiting,  or  taking 
the  least  notice  of  her,  during  all  her  misfortunes 
and  poverty.  Now  they  are  all  anxious  to  as- 
sist her  every  way  in  their  power.  It  all  sounds 
very  fine,"  continued  the  indignant  old  gentle- 
man, reddening  as  he  proceeded,  "  it  all  sounds 
very  fine!  But,  thank  God,  she  is  beyond  the 
reach  of  ever  needing  their  assistance ;  and  so  I 


THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW.  56 

have  given  them  to  understand.  But  I  do  not 
wish  to  get  angry,  and  so  we  will  dismiss  all 
thought  of  such  friends.  But  where  is  our  dear 
little  Charlie  1  You  have  not  seen  him  yet." 

Mrs.  Seton  arose  to  ring  the  bell,  and  a  ser- 
vant instantly  appearing,  "  Ask  Mrs.  Morris," 
said  Mr.  Temple,  "  if  she  will  have  the  kindness 
to  bring  little  Charles  into  the  drawing-room." 
The  servant  bowed  and  vanished,  and,  in  a  few 
minutes,  an  elderly  gentlewoman,  plainly  but 
handsomely  dressed,  made  her  appearance,  as- 
sisting the  tottering  steps  of  Mrs.  Seton's  young- 
est child,  whom  she  led  into  the  room. 

"  Allow  me,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Temple, 
"  to  have  the  pleasure  of  introducing  you  to 
Mrs.  Morris,  the  old  and  tried  friend  of  my 
Emily.  We  have  succeeded  in  persuading 
her  that  we  cannot  get  along-  without  her 
assistance  in  managing  the  household  and 
teaching  the  children.  And  so  she  has  con- 
sented to  come  and  spend  her  days  with  us, 
and  she  has  promised  to  teach  my  little  Amelia 
all  she  knows  about  work  and  housekeeping; 
for,  though  I  shall  leave  them  all  an  independ- 
ent fortune  when  I  die,  God  willing,  before  that 


56  THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW. 

time  comes  my  grandchildren  shall  all  know- 
how  to  earn  their  own  living,  so  that  if  fortune 
should  desert  them,  they  need  not  suffer  as  their 
mother  has  done.  I  may  appear  odd  in  my 
opinions,  but  I  consider  it  far  more  respectable 
for  a  young  lady  to  be  acquainted  with  every 
kind  of  work  necessary  in  a  family  than  to  be 
ignorant  of  it.  This  is  an  old-fashioned  doctrine, 
but  Mrs.  Seton  agrees  with  me,  and  it  will  be 
the  doctrine  we  shall  act  upon.  It  takes  but  a 
short  time  to  learn  all  these  things,  and  is  no 
hindrance  to  the  acquisition  of  every  other  ac- 
complishment." 

After  admiring  the  little  Charlie,  and  con- 
versing a  few  minutes  longer  on  ordinary  topics 
I  arose  to  terminate  my  visit.  I  was  warmly 
urged  to  repeat  it,  and  after  promising  to  do  so, 
and  exacting  a  similar  promise  in  return,  a 
promise  we  have  both  frequently  performed,  I 
departed,  well  pleased  with  the  interview. 

My  readers  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  the 
benevolent  shopkeeper  was  not  forgotten,  but 
that  a  sum  sufficient  to  establish  him  in  an  ex- 
tensive business,  was  furnished  him  by  Mr. 
Temple,  who  seemed  determined  that  no  one 


THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW.  57 

•who  had  ever  been  kind  to  Mrs.  Seton,  should 
fail  of  meeting  a  reward. 

Mr.  Temple,  as  he  himself  asserted,  seems 
actually  to  grow  younger  every  day ;  the  chil- 
dren under  his  judicious  management,  and  that 
of  their  mother  and  Mrs.  Morris,  continue  amia- 
ble, healthy,  and  happy.  The  good  grandfather 
as  well  as  the  mother,  adhere  strictly  to  their 
first  resolution  of  educating  their  children  to  be 
useful,  instead  of  making  them  mere  playthings, 
to  be  looked  at  and  admired.  Their  notions  on 
the  subject  of  the  education  of  girls  particularly, 
are  to-be-sure  looked  upon  as  extremely  odd  by 
many  of  their  acquaintances. 

"  You  are  giving  your  daughter  the  education 
of  a  servant!"  said  a  lady  one  day  to  Mrs. 
Seton,  as  she  surprised  her  superintending  the 
labors  of  her  little  girl  who  was  busily  employ- 
ed in  polishing  the  plated  door-knobs,  and  dust- 
ing the  rich  furniture  of  the  drawing-room : 
"  you  are  giving  your  beautiful  daughter  the 
education  of  a  mere  servant.  Why,  I  beg  of 
you,  do  you  not  leave  these  menial  employments 
to  the  proper  persons  ?" 

"  I  am  giving  her  such  an  education  as  every 


58  THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW. 

American  female  should  receive ;  I  am  giving 
her  such  an  education  as  would  have  saved  me 
from  many  a  sorrow,  and  perhaps  my  husband 
from  the  abject  poverty  to  which  he  was  finally 
reduced.  I  am  not  giving  her  the  education  of 
a  mere  servant,  for  I  intend  that  her  mind  shall 
be  stored  with  all  that  can  make  her  an  intellec- 
tual, and  accomplished  woman.  But  I  intend, 
at  the  same  time,  that  she  shall  be  familiar  with 
everything  that  will  make  her  most  useful  as  a 
wife,  a  mother,  and  the  mistress  of  a  family." 

"  But  with  her  prospects  of  an  immense  for- 
tune," replied  the  visiter,  "  these  low  employ- 
ments will  certainly  never  be  necessary  for  her." 

"  Perhaps  not,"  replied  Mrs.  Seton,  "but  is 
it  certain  that  she  may  not  by  some  means  lose 
that  immense  fortune?  My  prospects  were 
once  as  good  as  hers,  and  yet  I  became  reduced 
to  beggary.  But,  allowing  that  her  wealth  will 
never  forsake  her,  as  a  mistress  of  a  family,  it 
will  probably  be  necessary  for  her  some  day  to 
direct  others  in  their  employments.  But  how 
can  she  direct  others  to  do  that  of  which  she  is 
entirely  ignorant  herself?  Believe  me,  there 
is  frequently  a  great  deal  of  domestic  misery 


THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW.  59 

Occasioned  by  the  ignorance  of  the  wife,  in 
these  matters  which  you  call  'low  employ- 
ments.' It  is  strange  what  a  prejudice  there 
is  in  the  community  against  teaching  girls  to 
work.  It  seems  to  be  thought  disgraceful  for 
them  to  know  how  to  do  anything  useful. 
Nobody  thinks  of  bringing  up  boys  in  this  man- 
ner; a  man  would  be  thought  almost  an  idiot, 
who  should  suffer  a  family  of  sons  to  grow  up 
to  manhood,  entirely  unacquainted  with  any  kind 
of  business  —  the  helpless,  useless,  inefficient 
puppets,  which  most  girls  of  fashion  are  at  the 
present  day;  and  is  it  wise  then  to  educate 
girls  in  this  way?  Is  it  just?  Do  you  not 
suppose  that  brothers  sometimes,  when  they 
return,  weary  and  almost  worn  out,  from  the 
labors  of  the  counting-house  or  the  shop,  think 
it  rather  hard,  that  while  they  always  find  their 
sisters  doing  nothing,  they  should  be  subjected 
to  constant  and  daily  toil  1  It  would  be  a  very 
natural  reflection,  and  it  would  be  very  natural 
also,  if  a  less  kindly  feeling,  and  less  affection 
should  exist  between  brothers  and  sisters  on  this 
very  account." 
"  Perhaos  it  may  be  so,"  answered  the  lady, 


60  THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW. 

"  but  then  there  is  not  the  same  necessity  for 
girls  to  work,  that  there  is  for  boys ;  boys  are 
to  become  men,  and  men  must  know  how  to 
earn  money  to  support  their  families." 

"  Very  true !"  replied  Mrs.  Seton,  "  and  girls 
are  to  become  women,  and  as  women  surely 
they  ought  to  know  how  to  save,  or  to  spend 
to  the  best  advantage,  what  their  husbands  or 
fathers  thus  earn  :  not  by  extravagance,  waste, 
and  idleness,  so  to  discourage  them,  as  to  drive 
them  to  dissipation,  and  perhaps  despair.  No, 
the  obligation  is  mutual.  If  it  is  the  duty  of 
husbands  to  labor  for  the  support  of  their  fami- 
lies, it  is  the  equal  duty  of  wives  to  render  their 
labor  as  easy  as  possible,  by  taking  care  that 
what  they  earn  is  not  idly  squandered.  This 
they  cannot  do  unless  they  have  learned  to 
become  good  housewives,  and  to  perform  all 
the  duties  devolving  upon  the  mistress  of  a 
family." 

The  visiter  soon  departed,  to  talk  over  with 
her  friends  the  strange  opinions  of  Mrs.  Seton. 
She  was  too  thoroughly  indoctrinated  in  the 
fashionable  mode  of  education,  to  derive  much 
benefit  from  that  lady's  example  and  precepts  j 


THE  MERCHANT'S  WIDOW.  61 

but  if  there  are  any  others,  who  may  be  in- 
duced, by  the  perusal  of  this  humble  tale,  to  re- 
flect seriously  on  the  present  injudicious  system 
of  education  among  girls,  and  to  resolve  to  adopt 
a  wiser  course,  the  object  for  which  it  was 
written  is  attained. 


THE  UNEQUAL  MARRIAGE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"Oh!  how  the  heart  — 

Fond,  trusting  woman's  heart  —  will  yield  itself 
To  an  undoubting  confidence ;  and  dream, 
Till  dreaming  seems  reality,  that  all 
It  looks  upon  in  fondness,  hath  its  own 
Enduring  principle  of  sacred  truth 
And  meek  devotedness !" 

WHITTIER. 

THE  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun  were  stream- 
ing through  a  vine-mantled  window,  and  sending 
a  flood  of  soft  and  mellow  light  to  the  remotest 
nook  of  a  large  but  somewhat  antiquated  apart- 
ment. It  was  apparently  not  the  abode  of 
wealth,  for  though  the  room  was  neat  and  ele- 
gant, its  furniture  was  of  a  plain  and  far  from 
costly  character.  Yet  it  boasted  of  long  shelves 
of  variously-bound  books,  and  was  tastefully 


64  THE    UNEQUAL   MARRIAGE. 

adorned  with  numerous  pots  of  rare  and  beauti- 
ful plants,  whose  healthy  and  luxuriant  appear- 
ance indicated  that  they  had  been  nursed  with 
care  and  skill. 

On  a  sofa  near  the  window,  were  seated  two 
persons  of  different  sexes,  and  evidently  far 
from  being  of  the  same  age.  The  one  was  a 
young  man  of  almost  boyish  appearance,  and 
possessing  a  style  of  countenance  which  would 
everywhere  be  called  handsome,  but  which  was 
still  wanting  in  that  open  and  manly  expression, 
which  indicates  a  noble  and  generous  mind. 
This  deficiency,  however,  would  hardly  be  ob- 
served by  the  many,  so  rare  and  striking  wras  the 
beautiful  softness  of  his  complexion,  and  so 
gracefully  did  the  waving  ringlets  cluster  around 
his  fair  oval  face. 

The  lady  was  apparently  many  years  his 
senior.  She  was  pale,  and  rather  inclined  to 
thinness,  and  had  it  not  been  for  a  pair  of  large, 
soft,  dark  eyes,  and  a  fine  expansive  forehead, 
she  would  have  been  decidedly  homely.  Yet 
there  was  an  elegance  in  her  whole  contour, 
an  indescribable  grace  in  every  movement, 
that  could  not  fail  to  interest  even  a  careless  ob- 


THE    UNEQUAL    MARRIAGE.  65 

server.  She  was  apparently  engaged  in  botani- 
zing an  oleander  blossom,  for  her  eyes  had  been 
for  some  time  very  intently  fixed  upon  one  which 
she  held  in  her  hand,  though  the  abstracted  and 
almost  melancholy  expression  of  her  counte- 
nance, as  she  carelessly  plucked  its  delicate 
petals,  and  dropped  them  upon  her  white  muslin 
dress,  argued  little  in  favor  of  her  interest  in  the 
examination. 

Thus  musingly  employed,  she  seemed  quite 
unconscious  that  the  eyes  of  the  young  man 
were  attracted  to  her  countenance  far  more  fre- 
quently than  to  the  beautiful  scenery  without, 
and  which  he  pretended  to  be  engaged  in  ad- 
miring. But  so  it  was ;  and  whenever  his  eyes 
rested  upon  her,  they  were  lit  up  with  an  ex- 
pression of  ardent  fondness  and  admiration  which 
could  not  be  misunderstood.  At  last,  however, 
a  seriousness  seemed  to  steal  over  his  face,  and 
gently  taking  the  hand  of  his  companion, 
"  Sarah,"  said  he,  in  an  apprehensive  voice, 
"  you  are  very  silent ;  something  is  amiss  with 
you !"  She  looked  up  to  him  without  answering, 
but  there  was  trouble  and  anxiety  in  her  eye, 
and  a  more  mournful  shadow  stole  over  her  pale 


66  THE   UNEQUAL   MARRIAGE. 

and  lofty  brow,  and  she  seemed  evidently  strug- 
gling with  strong  and  conflicting  emotions. 

"Do  not  look  so  sadly  upon  me,  my  dear 
Sarah !"  said  the  young  man.  "  What  is  there 
so  very  alarming  in  the  thought  of  becoming  my 
•wife  ?  I  am  sure  you  do  not  love  me !" 

"  You  do  me  injustice,  Henry,"  answered  the 
lady,  "  you  do,  indeed !  I  have  been  weak 
and  foolish  enough  to  confess  that  I  love  you, 
and,  knowing  me  as  you  do,  why  should  you 
suppose  that  I  say  one  thing  and  mean  another  ? 
It  is  unkind  and  ungenerous !" 

"  Why  then  do  you  look  so  melancholy,  and 
shrink  back  whenever  I  mention  the  subject  of 
marriage,  as  if  you  felt  an  aversion  to  me  ?" 

"I  have  already  repeatedly  told  you  why, 
Henry,"  answered  Sarah,  the  tears  starting  to 
her  eyes ;  "  but  listen  patiently,  and  I  will  once 
more  explain  all  I  feel  on  the  subject." 

"  Say  on,  dear  Sarah,  and  I  promise  you  I 
will  endeavor  to  overturn  every  obstacle  you 
can  contrive  to  array  against  me.  There,  I  am 
delighted  to  see  that  sweet  smile  once  more,  but 
I  should  have  liked  it  better  if  it  had  not  been 
accompanied  by  that  mournful  shake  of  the  head !" 


THE    UNEQUAL   MARRIAGE.  67 

"  Well,  hear  me,  St.  Leger,  and  I  am  sure  you 
will  be  grateful  to  me  that  I  have  not  acceded 
to  your  wishes.  Look  at  me :  have  you  ever 
thought  how  old  I  am  ?  Why,  St.  Leger,  I  am 
an  '  old  maid  /'  —  I  have  seen  nearly  thirty-one 
years,  and  the  most  partial  eyes  could  not 
fail  to  discover  that  I  am  homely  —  decidedly 
homely !" 

"Homely,  Sarah!  how  can  you  speak  so! 
How  could  any  call  you  homely  with  that  proud 
and  noble  brow,  and  those  magnificent  eyes? 
And,  in  spite  of  your  efforts  to  depreciate  your- 
self in  my  opinion,  you  cannot  deny  that  you 
know  yourself  to  be  far  more  polished  and  grace- 
ful than  the  most  elegant  woman  of  your  ac- 
quaintance !" 

"  Nay,  Henry,  such  language  is  all  to  no  pur- 
pose !  Hear  me  out !  You  are  scarcely  over 
twenty  —  you  are  handsome,  and  caressed  by 
all  —  you  are  fond  of  gayety,  and,  I  must  speak 
out.  fond  of  coquetting  with  the  young  and 
beautiful.  Stand  before  this  mirror  with  me, 
and  observe,  faint  as  the  light  now  is,  the  wide, 
the  glaring  contrast  between  us,  See  the  dif- 
ference, impossible  to  be  concealed,  in  our  ages 


68  THE   UNEQUAL   MARRIAGE. 

—  and  all  on  the  wrong  side,  too !  Look  at 
those  fair  round  cheeks  of  yours,  and  then  at  ray 
pale  and  faded  ones,  and  tell  me  how  long  it 
would  be,  should  you  bind  yourself  to  me,  before 
you  would  weary  of  so  unfit  a  companion  ?  How 
long  before  you  would  blush  with  mortification 
as  you  presented  me  to  your  gay  young  friends 
as  your  wedded  wife  ?  And  how  long  before 
you  would  feel  in  the  very  depths  of  your  sick 
heart,  that  you  had  with  far  more  propriety 
chosen  me  to  be  your  mother  1  Take  time  to 
reflect  on  all  these  things,  and  you  will  feel  as 
I  do,  that  I  can  never,  without  meriting  the 
charge  of  rashness  and  folly,  be  nearer  to  you 
than  I  am  now  !" 

She  paused,  almost  breathless,  and  turning 
away  from  the  mirror,  silently  resumed  her  seat. 
St.  Leger  followed  her,  and,  throwing  himself 
on  an  ottoman  at  her  feet,  took  her  hand  in  his, 
and,  looking  up  in  her  pale  and  agitated  coun- 
tenance, exclaimed,  "I  have  heard  you  pa- 
tiently, Sarah,  and  without  prejudice  to  the  end, 
and  believe  me,  that  I  speak  the  language  of  my 
heart,  when  I  say  that  I  am  more  deeply  con- 


THE   UNEQUAL   MARRIAGE.  69 

vinced  than  I  ever  have  been,  that  you  are  pre- 
cisely fitted  to  ma'ke  me  happy,  and  that  with- 
out you  life  will  be  hardly  worth  preserving.  I 
acknowledge  the  truth  of  much  that  you  have 
said ;  I  know  that  I  am  younger  than  you,  and, 
it  may  be,  handsomer,  but  who  is  there  whose 
intellect  will  compare  with  that  of  Sarah  Wes- 
ton?  Who  thinks  of  mere  personal  charms, 
when  the  magic  of  your  conversation  draws  ad- 
miring circles  around  you?  Who  remembers 
that  you  are  not  beautiful,  when  the  rich  gems 
of  thought  are  flashing  from  your  eye,  or  pour- 
ing in  a  tide  of  eloquence  from  your  lips  1  No, 
Sarah ;  it  is  I  who  am  not  worthy  to  become 
your  husband ;  but  by  basking  in  your  sunshine, 
I  shall  become  more  like  you.  I  will  show  you 
and  the  world,  that  I  care  no  longer  for  the  fol- 
lies of  the  idle  and  the  gay,  but  will  rather 
strive  to  reflect  credit  on  your  choice,  by  pre- 
ferring the  society  of  the  wise  and  intellectual. 
And  if  I  ever  feel  proud,  it  will  be  when  you 
are  hanging  on  my  arm,  and  I  can,  in  the  face 
of  the  world,  call  you  my  own.  Oh,  Sarah, 
give  all  your  idle  fears  to  the  winds,  and  tell  me 
that  you  have  at  length  decided  to  reward  all 


70  THE    UNEQUAL   MARRIAGE. 

my  long-tried  and  ardent  affection  by  becoming 
mine  !" 

The  lady  turned  her  face  away  without 
answering,  but  the  watchful  eye  of  St.  Leger 
saw  that  a  strong  and  uncontrollable  emotion 
was  painted  on  her  features,  and  felt  that  her 
hand  trembled  in  his. 

Sarah  Weston  was  a  woman  possessed  of  a 
powerful  and  vigorous  intellect,  carefully  im- 
proved by  cultivation,  and  strong  and  correct 
judgment.  But  she  was  a  woman  still.  She 
had  long  been  secretly  attached  to  Henry  St. 
Leger,  but  had,  until  within  a  very  few  days, 
so  effectually  succeeded  in  hiding  it,  that  even 
her  lover  had  supposed  her  cold  and  indifferent 
to  him.  But  now  when  she  heard  his  design 
of  resigning  everything  else  rather  than  her  — 
when  his  fond  and  impassioned  pleadings  enter- 
ed into  her  heart,  what  wonder  that  she  felt  her 
resolution  grow  weak  and  falter  before  them  ? 
Henry  was  not  slow  to  perceive  his  advantage, 
and  well  did  he  improve  it,  for  before  he  left  her 
that  evening,  he  had  won  from  her  a  promise 
that,  ere  three  months  had  gone  by,  she  would 
become  his  wife. 


THE    UNEQUAL   MARRIAGE.  71 

Time  wore  on.  The  period  which  was  to 
crown  the  long-cherished  hopes  of  Henry  St. 
Leger,  at  length  arrived,  and  he  received  at  the 
altar  the  being  whom  he  fondly  believed  was 
to  constitute  the  brightest  gem  in  the  circlet  of 
his  earthly  happiness.  And  Sarah,  although 
she  sometimes  trembled  when  she  remembered 
the  disparity  of  their  ages  and  of  their  natural 
tastes,  gave  herself  up  to  the  happiness  she 
felt  in  being  the  chosen  and  cherished  bride 
of  one  so  universally  courted  and  admired  as 
her  husband. 

They  had  been  married  nearly  four  years, 
and  Mrs.  St.  Leger,  happy  in  her  lot,  began  to 
feel  that  all  her  former  fears  in  regard  to  their 
union  were  indeed  groundless.  Her  husband, 
so  far  from  ceasing  to  love  and  admire  her, 
seemed  rather  to  increase  in  his  affectionate 
attentions  toward  her.  He  felt  an  evident 
pride,  when  he  introduced  her  into  society  and 
witnessed  the  respect  and  admiration  with  which 
she  was  everywhere  received.  There  was, 
however,  one  cloud  on  the  bright  mirror  of  their 
happiness,  one  difficulty  which  marred  in  some 
degree  the  perfection  of  their  connubial  felicity, 


72  THE   UNEQUAL   MARK1AGE. 

and  operated  as  a  secret  canker  in  the  heart  of 
St.  Leger.  He  was  passionately  fond  of  chil- 
dren, and  the  idea  of  becoming  the  father  of  a 
little  circle  of  prattlers,  had  made  up  no  small 
portion  of  his  day-dreams  of  domestic  bliss. 
And  this  anxiety  was  the  greater,  as  he  possess- 
ed a  large  and  independent  fortune,  and  no 
immediate  heir  to  whom,  in  the  event  of  his 
death,  he  could  bequeath  it.  The  darling  hope 
of  supplying  this  deficiency  he  long  cherished, 
but  as  he  gradually  felt  himself  obliged  to  re- 
linquish all  expectations  on  the  subject,  he  turn- 
ed to  other  sources,  to  find  some  object  by  which 
to  fill  up  that  place  in  his  heart  thus  left  vacant. 
He  went  more  into  society  than  he  had  done 
since  his  marriage,  and  soon  began  to  feel  his 
old  fondness  for  gay  amusements,  and  frivolous 
companions  revive.  His  wife,  though  secretly 
regretting  it,  offered  no  objections  to  this,  and 
generally  accompanied  him  without  expressing 
the  least  hesitation. 

They  one  evening  attended  a  fashionable 
soiree  at  the  house  of  a  friend,  and  being  acci- 
dentally detained  at  home,  until  an  hour  some- 
what late,  they  were  the  last  who  entered  the 


THE    UNEQUAL   MARRIAGE.  73 

drawing-rooms.  Mrs.  St.  Leger,  was  soon 
agreeably  engaged  in  a  conversation  with  her 
hostess  and  two  or  three  intimate  friends,  and 
it  did  not  for  some  time  occur  to  her  to  look 
around  and  see  whether  her  husband  was  as 
pleasantly  occupied  as  herself.  She,  however, 
soon  observed  him  seated  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  room,  deeply  engaged  in  an  animated 
conversation  with  a  lady  whom  she  had  never 
before  seen,  but  by  far  the  most  beautiful  one 
in  the  room.  As  she  sat  silently  observing 
them,  she  felt  that  she  had  never  beheld  so 
lovely  a  countenance  as  the  one  then  blushing 
beneath  the  admiring  gaze  of  her  husband. 
The  lady's  manner,  was  exceedingly  graceful, 
and  elegant,  and  her  whole  deportment  marked 
by  a  peculiar  and  indescribable  fascination. 
Mrs.  St.  Leger  could  not  repress  a  sigh  as  she 
sat  regarding  the  animated  pair,  for  she  thought 
she  had  never  seen  a  couple  who  more  fully 
realized  her  ideal  of  youthful  grace  and  beauty. 
And  that  sigh  was  repeated  more  than  once,  as 
the  evening  passed  away,  and  her  husband, 
totally  unlike  his  usual  custom,  had  not  once 
approached  her,  nor  for  a  single  moment  left 
7 


74  THE   UNEQUAL   MARRIAGE. 

the  side  of  the  beautiful  stranger.  How  much 
more  bitter  would  that  sigh  have  been,  had  she 
been  aware  that  the  lady,  who  had  observed  her 
entrance  with  her  husband,  and  had  heard  them 
announced  as  Mr.  and  Mrs.  St.  Leger,  had  said 
to  him  in  the  course  of  their  long  conversation, 
i(  The  lady  whom  I  saw  enter  with  you,  and 
whom  I  heard  introduced  as  Mrs.  St.  Leger,  is,  \. 
presume,  your  mother." 

For  the  first  time  since  his  marriage,  the  cheek 
ot  the  vain  husband  was  suffused  with  a  blush 
of  shame,  as  he  acknowledged  Sarah  St.  Leger 
to  be  his  wife.  For  the  first  time  a  feeling  of 
regret  and  mortification  at  the  inequality  of  his 
union  crossed  his  bosom,  and  a  sensation  of 
anger  toward  his  innocent  wife,  arose  in  his 
heart.  —  Mrs.  Lancaster,  for  that  was  the  name 
of  the  stranger,  perceived  the  painful  effect  her 
question  had  produced,  and  adroitly  turned  the 
conversation  to  another  subject. 

When  they  reached  home,  St.  Leger  was 
eloquent  in  his  expressions  of  admiration  of  the 
fascinating  Mrs.  Lancaster.  He  had  learned  that 
she  was  a  widow,  that  her  husband  had  been 
dead  more  than  a  year,  and  that  she  had  re- 


THE    UNEQUAL    MARRIAGE.  75 

moved  to  their  neighborhood,  with  the  inten- 
tion of  making  it  her  permanent  residence. 

It  was  not  difficult  for  St.  Leger  to  persuade 
his  wife  that  it  was  their  duty  to  visit  their  new 
neighbor,  and  they  accordingly  paid  their  re- 
spects to  her,  at  her  own  residence,  the  next  day. 
But  if  she  was  fascinating  when  abroad,  how 
much  more  so  was  she,  when  freed  from  the 
restraints  of  a  mixed  company  and  in  her  own 
dwelling.  She  seemed  gratified  and  pleased  to 
receive  her  guests,  and  anxious  to  cultivate  their 
acquaintance,  promising  to  return  their  visit  at 
an  early  opportunity.  Mrs.  St.  Leger  returned 
home  dazzled  and  almost  overpowered  with  her 
charms,  but  with  a  heaviness  of  heart  which 
she  could  scarcely  conceal,  while  Henry  com- 
pletely intoxicated  at  her  flattering  attentions 
to  himself,  could  think  and  speak  of  no  one 
else. 

From  that  day  the  sensitive  wife  felt  that  her 
husband  was  changed  toward  her,  and  that  his 
heart  was  no  longer  hers.  When  in  society, 
he  appeared  kind  as  ever,  and  failed  not  to  pay 
her  the  same  marked  respect,  which  he  had 
always  done.  But  it  was  far  different  from 


76  THE   UNEQUAL    MARRIAGE. 

those  spontaneous  acts  of  affection  which  it  had 
hitherto  been  his  happiness  to  manifest  toward 
her,  and  seemed  yielded  rather  from  duty  than 
choice.  Her  society  appeared  no  longer  to  pos- 
sess a  charm  for  the  gay  young  husband,  though 
never  had  she  exerted  herself  so  much  to  enter- 
tain him,  and  render  his  home  a  happy  one. 
Day  after  day  he  absented  himself  more  and 
more  from  his  own  fireside,  to  linger,  charmed 
and  enthralled,  by  that  of  the  fascinating  Eugenia 
Lancaster.  And  so  successfully  had  the  siren 
wove  her  blandishments  around  him,  that  he  felt 
restless  and  uneasy  when  not  basking  in  the 
sunshine  of  her  smiles. 

Often  and  often  did  the  unhappy  but  affection- 
ate wife,  sit  by  her  solitary  hearth,  counting 
the  weary  and  slow-moving  hours,  until  the 
clock  told  her  that  it  was  midnight,  and  then 
retire  to  her  couch  before  her  thoughtless 
husband  returned,  lest  her  pale  cheek  and 
heavy  eye,  should  seem  to  him  to  express  even  a 
tacit  reproach. 

Thus  time  wore  on,  and  before  six  months 
had  gone  by,  the  unhappy  Mrs.  St.  Leger  could 
no  longer  shut  her  eyes  to  the  fact,  which  had 


THE  UNEQUAL  MARRIAGE.  77 

Jong  been  but  too  visible  to  others,  that  she  was 
an  unloved  and  neglected  wife !  But  never  by 
one  voluntary  word  or  look  did  she  reveal  to 
the  husband,  who  at  the  altar  had  promised  to 
love  and  cherish  her,  but  who  had  so  illy  ad- 
hered to  that  promise,  that  his  unkindness  and 
neglect  were  breaking  her  heart.  It  was  im- 
possible that  he  should  fail  to  perceive  that  she 
was  fearfully  changed  in  her  appearance,  but, 
so  far  from  assigning  it  to  the  true  cause,  he 
even  sometimes  remarked  to  her  that  she  "  really 
began  to  look  like  an  old  woman!"  Then  going 
to  the  mirror,  and  arranging  his  soft,  dark  ring- 
lets, and  smoothing  his  beautifully  arched  eye- 
brows, he  would  carelessly  take  his  hat,  and, 
bidding  her  a  light  good-morning,  leave  her  to 
feel,  in  the  bitterness  of  her  heart,  how  true  had 
been  her  forebodings  in  relation  to  the  ill-as- 
sorted union  to  which  she  had  yielded  so  hesi- 
tating and  reluctant  a  consent.  Perhaps  the 
question,  "  Why  did  you  marry  me  ?"  might 
sometimes  tremble  on  her  lips,  but  if  so  it  never 
found  utterance,  for  the  resolution  to  bear  and 
forbear  was  ever  present  with  her. 

As  might  naturally  be  expected,  to  so  sensi- 


78  THE  UNEQUAL  MARRIAGE. 

tive  and  frail  a  being,  this  painful  situation  was 
productive  of  the  most  alarming  results.  Her 
health,  always  delicate,  gradually  sunk  under  the 
weight  of  secret  and  unavailing  regrets,  and  as 
she  saw  that  its  visible  decline  appeared  to 
awaken  no  painful  emotions  in  the  heart  of  her 
estranged  husband,  she  rather  rejoiced  than  la- 
mented that  the  end  of  her  earthly  pilgrimage 
was  not  far  distant.  And  why  should  she  wish 
to  remain  ?  Life  had  lost  its  one  great  charm, 
and  she  felt,  felt  too  keenly,  that  she  was  no 
longer  necessary  to  the  happiness  of  any  human 
being;  that  she  stood  between  her  husband  and 
a  brighter  lot^  and  a  sad  conviction  that  the 
grave  was  now  her  most  fitting  home,  sunk 
mournfully  into  her  heart. 

It  may  be  asked,  "  Was  Eugenia  Lancaster 
aware  of  the  misery  her  too  great  intimacy  with 
Henry  St.  Leger  occasioned  his  neglected,  and 
almost  deserted  wife  1"  Justice  to  her  requires 
me  to  answer,  she  was  not  to  the  full  extent. 
With  an  unprincipled  selfishness,  and  a  wanton 
disregard  of  truth,  which  had  always  somewhat 
characterized  St.  Leger,  and  which  his  present 
unhallowed  course  had  tended  more  fully  to  de- 


THE  UNEQUAL  MARRIAGE.  79 

velop,  he  had  persuaded  her  that  his  wife  was  a 
cold  and  unloving  being,  utterly  devoid  of  the 
more  delicate  sensibilities  of  our  nature,  and 
that,  with  so  much  indifference  did  she  regard 
him,  she  was  quite  incurious  to  know  where  or 
how  he  spent  his  time  when  away  from  her, 
provided  she  could  enjoy  the  comforts  and  luxu- 
ries of  her  home,  unmolested  and  undisturbed. 
Partially  misled  by  these  misrepresentations, 
Eugenia  endeavored  to  persuade  herself  that 
there  was  "  no  real  harm  in  trying  to  smooth  the 
rough  and  disagreeable  path  of  a  young  and 
fashionable  man,  who  had  been  overreached  and 
cajoled  into  the  folly  of  marrying  an  old  woman. 
At  any  rate  it  was  no  more  than  Mrs.  St.  Leger 
ought  to  expect,  and  indeed  it  was  a  proper 
punishment  for  her  vanity  and  self-conceit,  in 
supposing  herself  a  fitting  match  for  her  hand- 
some, gay,  young  husband."  Thus  reasoning, 
she  hesitated  not  to  receive  the  long  and  daily 
visits  of  St.  Leger,  displaying  all  her  various  ac- 
complishments, and  employing  her  every  art  to 
fascinate  and  beguile  him,  until  she  had  at  last 
wound  herself  so  completely  around  his  heart, 
that  his  days  were  spent  almost  exclusively 


80  THE  UNEQUAL  MARRIAGE. 

with  her,  and  it  was  with  the  utmost  diffi- 
culty that  he  could  tear  himself  from  her  pres- 
ence, to  perform  the  most  necessary  duties 
of  life. 


THE  UNEQUAL  MARRIAGE.  81 


CHAPTER  II. 

"  Loud  howled  the  autumn  wind  -.  night  wore  away 
Too  slow,  and  thousands  watched  and  wished  for  day ; 
And  there  was  one  poor,  lone,  deserted  thing, 
Who  sat  and  shuddered  as  the  wild  gale's  wing 
Rushed  by  all  mournfully.     All  round  her  slept, 
As  the  pale  mourner  gazed,  and  sighed,  and  wept ; 
Why  sits  such  anguish  on  her  faded  brow  ? 
Why  droops  her  eye  ?    Ah,  Floris,  where  art  thou  ? 
Flown  are  thy  hours  of  dear,  domestic  bliss  — 
The  fond  embrace  —  the  husband's  tender  kiss ; 
Blest,  tranquil  hours  to  love  and  virtue  given, 
Delicious  joys  that  made  thy  love  a  heaven ! 
Flown —  and  for  ever !" 

Death's  Doings. 

WE  will  now  step  forward  one  year,  and  my 
readers  will  accompany  me  to  the  close  and 
darkened  chamber,  where,  on  the  couch  of  dis- 
ease and  suffering,  was  stretched  the  enfeebled 
and  attenuated  form  of  one  of  the  principal  per- 
sonages of  my  simple  tale.  It  was  Mrs.  St.  Leger. 
Six  months  had  effected  a  fearful  change  in  her 


82  THE   UNEQUAL   MARRIAGE. 

form  and  features ;  for  sickness  and  sorrow  had 
alike  faithfully  wrought  their  work,  and  she  in- 
deed appeared  now,  what  her  husband  had  long 
since  called  her  —  "an  old  woman." 

Too  miserable  to  wish  even  to  struggle 
against  the  encroachments  of  a  disease  she  but 
too  well  knew  was  fastening  upon  her,  and 
uncheered  by  a  single  expression  from  her  hus 
band,  indicating  a  desire  that  she  should  seek 
medical  advice  and  endeavor  to  regain  her  fast- 
failing  health,  she  had  refrained  from  applying 
to  a  physician  until  no  longer  able  to  leave  her 
chamber.  Somewhat  roused  from  his  culpable 
indifference,  and  stung  with  a  sense  of  his  cruel 
neglect,  St.  Leger  then  for  the  first  time  appear- 
ed to  evince  some  interest  in  the  fate  of  his 
unhappy  wife.  He  summoned  the  most  skilful 
physicians  to  be  found  in  the  neighborhood, 
and  so  far  restrained  himself  within  the  bounds 
of  decency  as  to  remain  at  home  with  her  the 
larger  portion  of  every  day.  But  it  was  for  a 
few  weeks  only.  The  time  spent  by  the  bed- 
side of  the  poor  invalid  was  gradually  shortened 
until  a  few  irksome  minutes  each  day  was  all 


THE    UNEQUAL   MARRIAGE.  83 

that  were  afforded  her,  while  his  hours  were 
trifled  away  with  Eugenia. 

It  may  appear  strange  that  there  was  no  one 
to  interfere  in  behalf  of  the  injured  wife,  and 
remonstrate  with  St.  Leger  on  his  unprincipled 
course,  but  he  was  of  a  wealthy  and  aristo- 
cratic family,  and  most  of  the  inhabitants  of  the 
village,  being  either  directly  or  indirectly  more 
or  less  dependant  upon  him,  policy,  as  is  too 
often  the  case,  sealed  their  lips.  Wealth,  like 
charity,  covers  a  multitude  of  sins,  and  St.  Leger 
had,  beside  this,  another  mantle  which  covered 
his.  Conscious  that  his  conduct  must  be  regarded 
with  suspicion  and  indignation  by  his  neighbors, 
as  he  grew  more  bold  in  his  devotion  to  Mrs. 
Lancaster,  he  had  assumed  religion  as  a  cloak 
for  his  iniquities,  and  the  more  shameless  and 
open  he  became  in  his  neglect  of  his  suffering 
wife,  the  more  pious  he  appeared  in  the  sanctu- 
ary of  the  Lord. 

Meanwhile,  worn  out  with  pain  and  regret, 
and  shattered  by  violent  and  frequent  paroxysms 
of  palpitation  of  the  heart,  which  were  daily 
becoming  more  alarming  both  in  frequency  and 
violence,  Mrs.  St.  Leger  seemed  on  the  verge  of 


84  THE    UNEQUAL    MARRIAGE. 

that  resting-place  of  all  her  earthly  hopes  and 
wishes — the  grave. 

At  the  time  we  now  behold  her,  a  few  sticks 
of  wood  were  burning  on  the  hearth,  for  it  was 
November,  and  a  young  female  attendant  was 
gliding  noiselessly  and  anxiously  about  the  room. 
It  was  some  time  since  the  invalid  had  spoken, 
and  she  appeared  to  be  sleeping.  At  length, 
"Marion,"  said  a  soft  but  feeble  voice,  and 
Marion  was  instantly  by  the  bed-side.  "  Has 
Mr.  St.  Leger  returned  yet  ?"  —  "  He  has  not," 
answered  the  girl,  the  tears  starting  to  her  eyes, 
"  he  has  not,  although  Dr.  Hayward  particularly 
requested  him  this  morning  to  leave  you  as  little 
as  possible,  as  he  apprehended  a  crisis  in  your 
disease  was  approaching.  And  indeed,  ma'am," 
she  continued  in  a  somewhat  angry  tone,  "  I  do 
not  think  he  would  have  gone,  if  that  odious 
Mrs.  Lancaster  had  not  sent  one  of  her  messen- 
gers requesting  to  see  him  immediately  on 
particular  business.  I  wonder  what  particular 
business  she  has  with  him  so  often  ?" 

A  deep  sigh  was,  for  a  few  moments,  Mrs.  St. 
Leger's  only  reply,  when,  turning  to  her  maid, 
"  Marion,"  said  she,  "  I  have  often  told  you  how 


THE    UNEQUAL    MARRIAGE.  85 

much  it  displeased  me  to  hear  any  term  of  dis- 
respect applied  to  Mrs.  Lancaster,  and  if  you 
love  me  and  would  not  give  me  pain,  you  will 
try  to  observe  my  wishes." 

"  And  indeed,  ma'am,  I  do  try !"  answered 
the  affectionate  girl :  "  I  try  to  obey  you  in  every- 
thing. But  somehow  when  I  think  how  that 
woman  has  enticed  your  true  and  lawful  hus- 
band away  from  you,  them  bad  words  will  slip 
out  almost  unknownst  to  me.  And  I  am  sure, 
ma'am,  there  is  nobody  but  an  angel  like  your- 
self but  what  would  be  glad  to  hear  a  body 
speak  their  mind  of  her,  and  wish  her  punished 
into  the  bargain." 

"  But  you  know,  Marion,"  answered  Mrs.  St, 
Leger,  "  that  we  are  commanded  in  the  Bible 
to  do  good  to  those  who  do  evil  to  us,  and  to 
leave  the  work  of  punishment  to  the  Lord.  Now, 
if  Mrs.  Lancaster  has  been  guilty  of  errors,  and 
I  do  not  deny  that  I  think  she  has,  God  who 
seeth  all  things,  and  who  suffers  not  the  wicked 
to  go  unpunished,  will  inflict  upon  her  all  that 
she  deserves  ;  and  it  is  not  for  us,  frail  and  im- 
perfect as  we  are.  to  judge  how  much,  or  of 
what  nature  that  punishment  should  be.  But  I 


86  THE    UNEQUAL   MARRIAGE. 

feel  too  weak  to  talk  any  longer ;  so,  Marion,  if 
you  will  give  me  my  drops  now,  I  will  try  to 
get  a  little  sleep,  for  1  think  it  must  be  ten 
o'clock." 

Marion  was  carefully  preparing  the  quieting 
mixture  which  Mrs.  St.  Leger  was  obliged  to 
take,  in  order  to  allay  the  violent  palpitations 
under  which  she  suffered,  when  the  door  of  her 
apartment  opened  and  St.  Leger  softly  entered. 
He  advanced  to  the  bedside  of  his  wife,  and 
greeted  her  with  an  unusual  appearance  of  in- 
terest, then  seating  himself  by  her  pillow,  in- 
quired in  so  affectionate  a  manner  in  regard  to 
her  health,  that  Marion  was  completely  over- 
come with  astonishment  and  pleasure. 

Mrs.  St.  Leger  exerted  herself  to  appear  as 
cheerful  as  possible,  and  when  nearly  an  hour 
had  gone  by,  and  her  husband  was  still  by  her 
side,  there  was  something  in  the  unusual  cir- 
cumstance that  so  reminded  her  of  happier  days, 
that  the  heart  of  the  neglected  wife  throbbed 
with  a  buoyancy  and  pleasure  that  were  all 
unwonted,  and,  looking  up  into  his  face,  she 
was  just  about  to  express  her  grateful  apprecia- 
tion of  his  kindness,  when  putting  his  hand  into 


THE   UNEQUAL   MARRIAGE.  87 

his  pocket,  he  drew  forth  a  small  roll  of  parch- 
ment and  slowly  opening  it,  "  My  dear,"  said  he, 
carelessly,  "  I  have  a  slight  favor  to  ask  of  you, 
which  I  hope  you  will  be  disposed  to  grant,  as 
it  will  occasion  you  but  a  moment's  trouble." 

"  Anything  in  my  power,  Henry,  shall  be 
cheerfully  granted !"  answered  the  grateful  wife, 
"but  what  is  it?  It  is  long  since  you  have 
requested  a  favor  of  me !" 

"  I  have  been  unwilling  to  trouble  you,"  said 
St.  Leger ;  "  and  now  I  merely  wish  your  sig- 
nature to  this  little  document.  Here  are  pen 
and  ink  all  ready,  and  I  will  raise  you  up  so 
that  you  can  do  it  without  fatigue." 

"  But  what  is  the  document  ?"  she  inquired, 
somewhat  startled ;  "  I  surely  may  be  permitted 
to  read  it,  before  signing  it." 

"  The  exertion  would  be  too  much  for  you," 
answered  St.  Leger,  in  a  hurried  and  embarrass- 
ed tone.  "  It  is  merely  a  little  business  mat- 
ter, and  I  cannot  think  of  your  fatiguing  yourself 
so  unnecessarily." 

"  But  you  -can  easily  tell  me  its  contents," 
said  the  now  alarmed  wife ;  "  I  cannot  sign  it 
without  knowing  what  it  is." 


88  THE  UNEQUAL  MARRIAGE. 

"Pshaw!  How  can  you  be  so  tiresomely 
fastidious,  and  particular !"  he  exclaimed,  en- 
deavoring to  evade  her  demand ;  "  have  I  not 
told  you  that  it  is  merely  a  little  business 
matter  ?" 

"  You  have,  but  I  must  know  its  nature,"  was 
her  firm  reply. 

St.  Leger  paused,  while  painful  indecision, 
and  the  most  violent  agitation,  were  manifested 
in  his  countenance  and  manner.  At  length, 
roughly  seizing  her  wrist,  "  Sarah,"  said  he, 
sternly,  almost  fiercely,  "Will  you  sign  this 
parchment  ?" 

"  When  you  have  told  me  its  contents,  I  will 
answer  you,"  said  she  again  firmly,  but  with  a 
countenance  as  pale  as  death. 

"  Well,  then,"  said  he,  suddenly  dropping  her 
hand,  and  assuming  a  bravado  air,  "  it  is  a  Bill 
of  Divorce,  and  you  shall  sign  it !" 

The  unhappy  wife  for  a  moment'  covered  her 
face  with  her  pale,  transparent  hands,  and  then 
suddenly  removing  them,  and  turning  an  implor- 
ing glance  upon  her  unfeeling  husband,  answer- 
ed with  a  quick,  gasping  breath,  "  Henry,  I 
cannot  do  it !" 


THE  UNEQUAL  MARRIAGE.  89 

Again,  the  husband  paused,  and  then  assu- 
ming a  supplicating  voice  and  manner, "  Sarah," 
said  he,  "  how  often  have  you  assured  me  that 
you  loved  me,  and  that  my  happiness  was  dearer 
to  you  than  your  own.  But  now  you  refuse  me 
the  only  proof  that  I  desire  of  your  sincerity, 
and  the  only  favor  that  can  contribute  to  my 
happiness.  Sarah,  if  your  love  is  not  all  pre- 
tence, convince  me  of  the  fact  by  signing  this 
Bill  of  Divorce.  It  is  the  only  way  by  which  you 
can  render  me  happy.  Sign  it,"  he  continued, 
relapsing  into  his  former  sternness,  "  for  I  must 
and  will  marry  Eugenia  Lancaster !" 

At  these  cruel  words  the  miserable  wife 
pressed  her  hands  tightly  upon  her  heart,  and 
gasping  forth  a  request  that  he  would  give  her 
until  morning  to  reflect  upon  the  subject,  she 
motioned  her  husband  to  leave  her,  and  turned 
her  face  to  the  wall.  St.  Leger  left  the  room 
without  a  word,  and  the  angry  and  weeping 
Marion  instantly  locked  the  door  against  all 
farther  intrusion.  Then  approaching  her  mis- 
tress, tenderly  and  respectfully  inquired  what 
she  could  do  for  her. 

*  Nothing,  Marion !"  answered  the  miserable 
8 


90  THE    UNEQUAL   MARRIGE. 

woman  in  a  hoarse  and  unnatural  voice ;  "  Noth- 
ing !  Leave  me  to  my  God,  and  my  own 
heart !» 

The  affectionate  and  terrified  girl,  instantly 
retreated  toward  the  fire,  and  falling  on  her 
knees,  and  burying  her  face  in  the  cushion  of  an 
invalid  chair,  sobbed  like  a  grieved  and  heart- 
broken child.  But  the  voice  of  distress,  never 
unheeded  by  her  kind-hearted  mistress,  reached 
her  ear,  even  amid  the  bitterness  of  her  own 
agony.  "  Marion,"  said  she,  soothingly  and  ten- 
derly, "  my  kind,  faithful  Marion,  come  to  me  1" 

The  grateful  girl  sprang  forward,  and,  in  a 
voice  choked  with  tears,  sobbed  out,  "  Oh,  my 
dear,  kind  mistress,  it  makes  me  so  miserable  to 
think  I  cannot  help  you  now  in  your  distress !" 

"  I  know  you  would  do  anything  for  me,  dear 
Marion,  that  lies  in  your  power.  I  know  all  the 
kindness  of  your  heart,  and  your  sympathy  and 
affection  have  been  almost  my  only  comfort  for 
many  a  long,  sad  month.  But  compose  your- 
self, and  lie  down  and  sleep ;  you  need  it,  and 
you  may  have  a  trying  day  to-morrow.  Do 
not  be  afraid  to  leave  me,  for  I  am  more  easy 
now." 


THE    UNEQUAL   MARRIAGE.  91 

Comforted  by  the  kind  words  of  her  mistress, 
Marion,  after  carefully  smoothing  her  pillow, 
obeyed,  and  worn  out  with  long-watchings  and 
fatigue,  was  soon  fast  asleep.  But  through  all 
the  long  and  dreary  watches  of  that  night, 
sleep  visited  not  the  pillow  of  the  suffering  in- 
valid. The  selfish  and  cruel  demand  of  her  hus- 
band, with  all  his  late  unkindness  and  desertion, 
rose  up  in  vivid  and  fearful  colors  before  her. 
Yet  the  thought  of  voluntarily  divorcing  herself 
from  him,  shamefully  as  he  had  neglected  and 
insulted  her,  was  more  than  she  could  bear. 
Hour  after  hour  she  revolved  and  re-revolved 
the  subject  in  her  mind,  but  could  arrive  at  no 
conclusion.  Had  she  consulted  no  one  but  her- 
self, decision  would  have  been  comparatively 
easy,  even  though  that  decision  might  have  left 
a  stigma  on  her  own  name.  But  she  knew  that 
if  she  consented,  and  set  him  at  liberty,  imme- 
diate marriage  with  Eugenia  would  be  the  con- 
sequence, and  his  name  would  be  covered  with 
infamy  and  disgrace. 

On  the  other  hand  she  felt  that  she  was  on 
the  verge  of  the  grave,  that  a  few  short  weeks, 
perhaps  days,  would  put  a  period  to  her  suffer- 


92  THE  UNEQUAL  MARRIAGE. 

ings,  and  bestow  upon  her  infatuated  husband 
that  liberty  for  which  he  so  eagerly  and  madly 
panted.  He  would  then  unite  himself  to  that 
fascinating  being,  for  whom  alone  he  now 
seemed  to  live,  and  all  would  be  well.  This 
then  she  determined  should  be  her  decision. 
But  notwithstanding  her  consciousness  that  this 
decision  was  right,  she  shrunk  from  its  imme- 
diate consequences  to  herself.  The  thought 
would  rise  up  that  she,  the  being  whom  her 
faithless  husband  had  almost  compelled  to  marry 
him  —  the  wife  who  had  been  affectionately 
cherished  in  his  bosom,  until  banished  thence  by 
the  alluring  and  voluptuous  charms  of  another — 
that  she  must  with  her  own  hand  either  sever 
the  only  link  which  bound  her  to  existence,  or 
know  that  her  death  was  the  event  most  earn- 
estly desired  by  him,  who  amid  all  his  selfish 
vanity  and  neglect,  was  still  dearer  to  her  than 
all  the  world  beside.  It  was  a  drop  too  much, 
in  her  cup  of  misery.  All  her  long-suppressed 
feelings  at  length  gave  way.  Despair  seemed 
to  take  hold  of  her  —  she  groaned  and  wrung 
her  hands,  and,  in  the  excess  of  her  anguish, 


THE  UNEQUAL  MARRIAGE.  93 

she  inwardly  prayed  that  she  might  die  before 
the  morning  light. 

Marion,  awakened  by  the  heavy  groans  of 
her  suffering  mistress,  stood  bending  over  her, 
utterly  unable  to  offer  her  the  least  consolation. 
Calmness  was,  however,  at  length,  gradually 
restored,  and,  as  the  morning  dawned,  she  sunk 
into  a  restless  and  disturbed  slumber.  After 
about  an  hour  she  awoke,  and  sought  to  pre- 
pare herself  for  the  dreaded  visit  of  her  husband, 
and  the  scene  of  violence  and  anger  which  she 
expected,  with  but  too  much  reason,  to  encoun- 
ter ;  for,  let  what  would  betide  her,  she  was 
firmly  resolved  to  refuse  every  solicitation  of 
St.  Leger,  and  to  die  as  she  had  lived  —  his 
wife.  But,  notwithstanding  all  her  efforts  to 
summon  fortitude  and  self-possession,  as  the 
trying  hour  drew  nigh,  her  agitation  increased 
to  a  degree  which  filled  the  watchful  Marion 
with  alarm  and  foreboding. 

"  Be  composed,  I  entreat  you,  my  dear  Mrs. 
St.  Leger,"  said  she,  "  this  agitation  will  destroy 
you." 

"  Oh,  Marion,"  said  the  poor  sufferer,  pres- 
sing her  hand  upon  her  heart,  and  looking  up  in 


94  THE    UNEQUAL    MARRIAGE. 

the  anxious  face  of  her  attendant  with  such  a 
piteous  look  as  went  to  the  soul  of  the  faithful 
girl,  "  Oh,  Marion,  I  have  such  a  pain  here ; 
but  press  your  hand  upon  it,  and  I  shall  be 
better." 

Marion  did  as  she  was  desired,  but  she  had 
scarcely  done  so,  when  all  her  fears  were  at  once 
realized.  Mrs.  St.  Leger  was  seized  with  an 
attack  of  palpitation,  more  violent  and  of  longer 
duration  than  she  had  ever  before  experienced. 
She  gasped  and  struggled  for  breath,  a  ghastly 
paleness  settled  around  her  mouth,  and  the  ter- 
rified girl  was  on  the  point  of  alarming  the  house- 
hold, but  a  sign  from  her  mistress  restrained  her, 
and  held  her  still  by  her  side. 

The  violence  of  the  paroxysm  at  length  aba- 
ted, but  it  was  succeeded  by  a  state  of  exhaus- 
tion from  which  it  seemed  impossible  that  the 
patient  could  ever  recover.  Marion  watched 
every  breath  of  the  poor  sufferer,  and  with  all 
the  solicitude  of  the  most  tender  mother  over  an 
idolized  child,  judiciously  administered  those 
little  remedies  which  had  been  recommended  by 
the  physician  for  similar  attacks.  Under  the 
influence  of  so  much  care,  Mrs.  St.  Leger  gradu- 


THE   UNEQUAL   MARRIAGE.  95 

ally  revived,  and  though  still  alarmingly  feeble 
and  languid,  was  soon  able  to  give  utterance  to 
her  thoughts  and  wishes. 

The  dreaded  hour  at  length  arrived,  and,  true 
to  the  appointed  time,  St.  Leger  entered  the 
chamber  of  the  invalid.  He  advanced  with  a 
firm  and  resolute  step  to  the  bed  of  his  wife, 
but  when  he  looked  into  her  altered  face,  and 
her  dark,  sorrowful  eyes  were  turned  full  upon 
him,  there  was  in  them  an  expression  of  such 
deep,  but  patient  suffering,  that  it  touched  the 
heart  even  of  the  selfish  husband,  and  he,  for  a 
moment,  faltered  in  his  unfeeling  purpose.  But 
it  was  the  hesitation  of  a  moment  only.  Reso- 
lutely banishing  every  feeling  which  could  war 
with  his  determination,  and  assuming  a  tone  of 
hypocritical  softness ;  "  Sarah,  my  dear,"  said  he, 
taking  her  reluctant  hand,  "  I  have  come,  ac- 
cording to  your  appointment,  to  inquire  in  what 
manner  you  have  decided  in  relation  to  the 
little  matter  I  suggested  to  you  last  evening.  I 
trust,  I  shall  find  your  decision  a  favorable  one." 

"  No,  Henry,"  answered  the  wife,  in  a  sub- 
dued but  calm  voice,  "  no,  Henry,  it  is  not 
favorable.  I  have  carefully  examined  the  sub- 


96  THE    UNEQUAL    MARRIAGE. 

ject  in  every  point  of  light,  and  the  result  of 
that  examination  has  been,  that  it  is  my  duty 
to  refuse  your  request.  Death  will  ere  long 
effect  that  divorce  for  which  you  are  so  anxious, 
and  it  shall  never  be  done  by  my  hand.  Spare 
me,  then,  I  entreat  you,  all  farther  solicitation 
on  the  subject,  and  leave  me  to  die  in  peace !" 

Pale  with  suppressed  rage,  the  baffled  hus- 
band paced  the  room  for  several  minutes  in  pro- 
found silence,  then  again  advancing  toward  his 
wife  he  fiercely  exclaimed  :  "  Madam,  I  be- 
lieve this  talk  about  dying  is  all  pretence.  I 
have  no  idea  but  what  you  will  live  for  years 
vet.  An  old  woman  who  has  had  the  art  to 
entrap  a  young  husband,  is  not  likely  to  do  him 
so  great  a  favor,  as  to  die  very  soon.  This 
pretence  shall  not  avail  you,  and  I  again  tell  you 
that  your  signature  to  this  bill  I  must  and  will 
have.  For  the  last  time,  1  ask,  will  you  con- 
sent?" 

Terrified  by  his  violent  and  menacing  air,  and 
almost  bereft  of  her  senses,  the  wretched  wife 
faintly  shrieked,  and  like  a  frightened  child 
buried  her  head  in  the  bed-clothes.  But  a  rude 
hand  uncovered  her  face,  and  a  strong  grasp  was 


THE   UNEQUAL    MARRIAGE.  97 

on  her  arm,  and  eyes,  whose  terrible  expression 
sent  the  life-blood  curdling  to  her  heart,  were 
glaring  upon  her.  "  Henry,  I  will !"  she 
shrieked  forth,  rather  than  spoke,  while  her 
whole  frame  seemed  as  if  shaking  with  the  last 
agony.  Without  a  single  word,  St.  Leger 
placed  the  parchment  before  her,  then  raising 
her  up,  and  putting  a  pen  in  her  pale,  thin 
fingers,  significantly  pointed  to  the  place,  where 
her  signature  was  to  be  affixed.  The  wife 
leaned  forward,  and  twice  she  attempted  to  in- 
scribe her  name,  but  twice  the  trembling  hand 
refused  its  office.  The  white  fingers  relaxed 
their  hold,  and  the  pen  was  just  falling  upon 
the  parchment,  when  the  unpitying  husband 
passed  his  arm  around  her  waist  to  assist  her 
failing  efforts,  and  placing  the  pen  once  more 
in  her  powerless  hand,  he  firmly  guided  it,  and 
the  name  was  written.  His  great  wish  was 
now  accomplished,  and,  with  a  glow  of  tri- 
umphant pleasure,  he  was  just  raising  his  head 
to  thank  his  abused  wife  for  her  compliance, 
when  he  started  as  if  struck  by  a  thunderbolt. 
A  convulsion  passed  over  the  face  of  his  victim, 
a  momentary  shudder  shook  her  frame,  her 
9 


98  THE    UNEQUAL   MARRIAGE. 

head  fell  heavily  back  upon  its  pillow,  and  eyes 
from  which  the  life  had  for  ever  departed  were 
strangely  fixed  upon  him,  and  seemed  to  be 
penetrating  his  very  soul.  Death  had  signed 
the  divorce. 

Horrorstruck  at  the  frightful  and  unexpected 
consequences  of  his  baseness  and  cruelty,  and 
stung  with  a  late  and  unavailing  remorse,  St. 
Leger  crushed  the  fatal  parchment  in  his  hands, 
and  rushed  from  the  room. 


THE   UNEQUAL   MARRIAGE.  99 


CHAPTER  III. 

"  Once  more  I  saw  her,  and  she  lay 

Beyond  life's  dim,  uncertain  river, 
A  glorious  mould  of  fading  clay, 

From  whence  the  spark  had  fled  for  ever. 
I  gazed  —  my  breast  was  like  to  burst  — 

And,  as  I  thought  of  years  departed, 
The  years  wherein  I  saw  her  first, 

When  she,  a  girl,  was  lightsome-hearted ; 
I  felt  the  chill  —  I  turned  aside  — 

Bleak  desolation's  cloud  came  o'er  me  — 
And  being  seemed  a  troubled  tide, 

Whose  wrecks  in  darkness  swam  before  me." 

MRS.  St.  Leger  was  borne  to  her  last  resting- 
place  with  all  the  pomp  and  circumstance  usual- 
ly displayed  on  such  occasions  in  the  haughty 
and  aristocratic  family  of  the  St.  Legers.  The 
bereaved  husband,  as  he  was  by  many  falsely 
called,  followed  with  all  due  solemnity,  as  chief 


100        THE  UNEQUAL  MARRIAGE. 

mourner,  and  the  ill-fated  wife  was  consigned  to 
that  silent  home,  "  where  the  wicked  cease  from 
troubling,  and  the  weary  be  at  rest." 

But  let  it  not  be  supposed,  because  unwept  by 
him  who  had  solemnly  vowed  to  love  and  cherish 
her,  and  who  should  have  sedulously  guarded 
her  from  every  ill,  that  there  were  none  to 
grieve  for  her.  One  so  good  and  gentle  as  Mrs. 
St.  Leger,  could  not  but  have  friends,  and  there 
were  many  who,  awed  by  her  husband,  had  kept 
aloof  from  the  neglected  wife,  during  her  last 
illness,  now  lamented  that  they  had  done  so, 
and  wept  that  she  was  no  more.  And  there 
was  many  an  humble  but  grateful  being,  whose 
necessities  her  ever-active  benevolence  had  re- 
lieved, who  felt  that  with  her  they  had  lost  their 
best  and  kindest  friend,  and  who  mourned  for 
her  with  a  sincerity  which  showed  how  truly 
they  loved  her. 

The  grief  of  Marion  knew  no  bounds.  For 
many  years  she  had  been  the  friend  rather  than 
the  servant  of  her  idolized  mistress,  and  she  felt 
when  she  was  gone,  that  she  had  little  left  to 
live  for.  But  time,  the  softener  of  every  sorrow, 
at  length  alleviated  hers.  St.  Leger  wished 


THE  UNEQUAL  MARRIAGE.  101 

still  to  retain  her  in  his  service,  but  she  shrunk 
from  the  thought  of  remaining  with  one  whom 
she,  with  but  too  much  truth,  regarded  as  the 
cause  of  her  mistress'  death.  "  I  cannot  stay 
with  you,  now  my  dear  mistress  is  no  more," 
said  she  ;  "  I  should  be  constantly  reminded  of 
her,  and  I  could  not  be  happy.  Besides,  there 
will,  most  likely,  soon  be  new  lords  here,  and 
'new  lords  make  new  laws,'  and  I  am  too 
much  used  to  the  gentle  ways  of  my  mistress, 
to  learn  to  love  the  proud  and  overbearing  ones 
of  another.  No,  I  must  go !  I  am  sure  I  should 
only  be  in  your  way,  and  that  of  the  new  lady 
you  will  soon  have !  I  can  earn  my  bread  else- 
where !" 

St.  Leger  was  at  first  very  much  irritated  at 
the  refusal  of  Marion,  and  her  plain  and  honest 
statement  of  the  reasons  which  induced  it,  but  a 
few  moments'  reflection  more  than  reconciled 
him.  He  felt  that  he  could  not  always  bear  her 
eye,  and  that  he  would  rather  never  meet  it 
again.  He  made  no  farther  objections  to  her 
departure,  and  we  may  regard  it  as  a  singular 
act  of  respect  to  the  memory  of  his  injured  wife, 
that  he  settled  on  the  faithful  girl  an  annuity, 


102        THE  UNEQUAL  MARRIAGE. 

which  placed  her,  for  the  remainder  of  her 
life,  beyond  the  necessity  of  toiling  for  a  sub- 
sistence. 


THE  UNEQUAL  MARRIAGE.        103 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  Ye  've  waled  aut  anithei 

Your  bride  for  to  be ; 
But  can  her  heart  luve  sae 

As  hers  luvit  thee  ? 
She  has  wit,  she  has  beauty, 

And  monie  braw  ways ; 
But  they  a'  winna  buy  back 

The  peace  o'  past  da^s  !" 

THREE  months  from  the  date  of  that  cruel 
and  villanous  act  which  consigned  his  much-in- 
jured wife  to  an  untimely  grave,  St.  Leger  be- 
came the  husband  of  Eugenia  Lancaster.  For 
sometime  after  his  marriage,  his  guilty  and  long- 
indulged  hopes  were  realized,  and,  in  the  joy  of 
calling  so  beautiful  a  creature  his,  he  endeavor- 
ed to  forget  the  guilty  steps  which  had  hastened 
the  untimely  and  unmerited  fate  of  the  mild  and 
gentle  being  who  had  preceded  her.  But  it  is 
easier  to  commit  sin  than  it  is  to  wash  away 


104  THE   UNEQUAL   MARRIAGE. 

the  remembrance  of  it ;  and  the  pillow  of  St. 
Leger  was  long  haunted  by  that  last  fixed  and 
fearful  gaze  of  his  wife,  which  had  struck  such 
terror  to  his  heart.  Often,  too,  when  yielding 
himself  to  the  intoxicating  blandishments  of  Eu- 
genia, would  that  signature,  which  had  been 
traced  by  the  fingers  of  the  dying,  rise  up  before 
him,  and  turn  his  cup  of  joy  to  bitterness. 

But  fearful  as  were  these  haunting  memories 
of  the  past,  they  were  not  the  only  punishment 
of  St.  Leger.  He  soon  had  other  causes  to 
mar  the  happiness  of  his  wedded  life,  for  ere  six 
months  had  elapsed,  he  awoke  to  the  mortifying 
conviction  that  the  haughty  and  unprincipled 
beauty  whom  he  had  taken  to  his  bosom,  had 
gradually  assumed  over  him  a  dominion  which 
rendered  him  little  better  than  a  slave.  She 
tyrannized  over  him  with  an  authority  that  was 
absolute  and  untiring — pried,  with  a  jealous 
curiosity,  into  his  minutest  actions,  and  if  he 
ventured  upon  the  slightest  remonstrance,  he 
was  soon  silenced  by  an  assurance  from  her,  that 
she  intended  to  take  good  care  that  he  did  not 
leave  her  for  another,  as  he  had  left  his  former 
wife!  All  these  mortifications  St.  Leger  en- 


THE  UNEQUAL  MARRIAGE.       105 

dured  without  a  murmur,  particularly  when,  in 
due  time,  his  wife  crowned  the  grand  wish  of 
his  heart,  by  presenting  him  with  a  son.  It  was 
a  robust  and  beautiful  child,  and  regarded  by 
St.  Leger  with  a  fondness  little  short  of  idolatry. 
Hour  after  hour  would  he  gaze  upon  the 
growing  charms  of  the  noble  boy,  and  as  he 
looked  forward  to  the  period  when  that  child 
would  become  his  companion,  he  felt  that  now 
there  was  indeed  happiness  in  store  for  him. 


THE    UNEQUAL   MARRIAGE. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  When  all  the  drossy  feelings  of  the  day, 
Touched  by  the  wand  of  truth,  dissolve  away 
Unhallowed  guilt  shall  in  her  bosom  feel 
A  rack  too  fierce  for  language  to  reveal !" 

MONTGOMERY. 

YEARS  went  by,  and  the  infant  had  become  a 
man.  But  was  he  the  man  that  his  father  in 
his  fond  day-dreams  had  anticipated  ?  Let  us 
see. 

In  his  childhood,  he  had  been  indulged  by  his 
parents  in  every  wish  of  his  heart,  however  im- 
proper, and,  profiting  by  the  early  example  of 
those  parents,  as  he  advanced  to  riper  age,  he,  in 
his  turn,  sought  not  to  place  any  restraint  upon 
his  passions,  but  gave  himself  up  to  an  indul- 
gence in  the  most  lawless  and  ruinous  vices. 
Too  late  the  parents  became  aware  of  the  fatal 
error  which  had  ruined  their  only  child.  In 
vain  did  they  exert  their  tardy  efforts  to  win  him 


THE  UNEQUAL  MARRIAGE.        107 

back  to  virtue ;  he  openly  scoffed  at  every  re- 
monstrance, and,  as  the  wretched  father  beheld 
his  dissolute  and  headstrong  son  hurrying  on  to 
swift  destruction,  until  he  at  last  laid  him  in  an 
untimely  and  dishonored  grave,  he  bowed  his 
head  beneath  the  stroke,  overwhelmed  with  a 
fearful  conviction  that  he  had  never  before  ex- 
perienced. The  ways  of  Providence  seemed 
suddenly  opened  to  his  eyes,  and  he  felt,  in  the 
bitterness  of  his  heart,  that  "  the  way  of  the 
transgressor  is  indeed  hard." 

He  had  now  leisure  to  take  a  retrospect  of  his 
past  life,  and  how  did  that  retrospect  appal  his 
heart!  As  he  looked  back  through  the  long 
vista  of  departed  years,  the  sins  of  his  earlier 
manhood  were  as  in  a  mirror  arrayed  before  him, 
while  conscience,  standing  by,  sternly  heightened 
the  effect  of  every  hideous  picture.  She  bade 
him  look  once  more  upon  his  gentle  and  un- 
offending wife,  as  she  lay  stretched  upon  the  bed 
of  disease,  to  which  she  had  been  brought  by 
his  neglect  and  cruelty.  He  saw  again  that  be- 
seeching look  which  she  bent  upon  him,  when, 
exhausted  by  his  violence  and  her  own  agita- 
tion, she  had  implored  him  to  leave  her  to  die 


108       THE  UNEQUAL  MARRIAGE. 

in  peace  —  and  then,  more  fearfully  than  all,  rose 
up  that  last  dread  scene,  where,  when  he  had 
inhumanly  forced  his  dying  wife  to  a  compliance 
with  his  lawless  wishes,  death  had  interposed 
to  snatch  the  victim  from  his  clutches. 

He  gazed  upon  them  all,  and  a  new  light 
seemed  to  break  in  upon  his  eyes.  He  felt  that 
the  slavish  and  unmanly  life  he  had  lived  with 
Eugenia  —  that  the  disgraceful  and  worthless 
career  of  his  idolized  son,  and  his  untimely  and 
violent  death — were  all  but  so  many  stripes  from 
the  hand  of  the  Almighty,  chastising  him  for 
his  former  iniquities  and  transgressions. 

Bowed  down  by  a  premature  old  age,  haunt- 
ed by  an  undying  sorrow  and  regret,  but  humble 
and  penitent,  the  broken-hearted  St.  Leger  soon 
followed  his  son  to  the  grave.  His  haughty  and 
tyrannical  wife  still  lives,  but  lives  isolated  and 
neglected,  shunned  by  her  former  acquaintances, 
and  more  wretched  than  the  meanest  beggar 
who  solicits  charity  at  her  door. 

Should  this  imperfect  sketch  ever  meet  her 
eyes,  she  will  at  once  recognise  its  features,  and 
it  may  be  that  its  perusal  may  inflict  another 


THE   UNEQUAL   MARRIAGE.  109 

pang  of  regret  and  repentance  upon  a  heart 
which  was  but  too  long  hardened  and  unfeeling, 
or  perhaps  awake  a  feeling  of  repentance,  asso- 
ciated with  a  new  and  higher  life. 

I  have  sedulously  refrained  from  giving  the 
names  of  the  persons,  or  the  scene  of  this  im- 
perfect tale.  But,  while  I  have  been  thus  cautious, 
I  have  felt  myself  justified  in  relating  the  facts, 
deeming  that  they  might,  perhaps,  furnish  a 
lesson  not  entirely  useless. 

May  all,  when  they  peruse  it,  remember,  that 
ends  attained  by  wicked  or  unlawful  means,  sel- 
dom result  in  good  to  the  possessor,  but  are  often 
made  instruments  of  the  severest  punishment. 
May  they  also  remember,  that  crime  always 
meets  with  its  reward,  and  that,  although  the 
retribution  may  be  long  deferred,  it  never  fails 
of  reaching  the  transgressor  at  last. 
10 


THE  LONELY  BURIAL. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  Death,  when  we  meet  the  spectre  in  our  walks, 
As  we  did  yesterday,  and  shall  to-morrow, 
Soon  grows  familiar  —  like  most  other  things, 
Seen,  not  observed :  —  but  death,  in  foreign  climes, 
When  he  arrests  the  treasures  of  our  home, 
Bidding  them  sleep  and  never  wake  again, 
Knocks  at  the  heart."  ROGERS. 

IT  was  April  in  New  York, a  soft,  mild, 

delightful  day :  the  trees,  scattered  here  and 
there  through  the  city,  were  beginning  to 
put  forth  their  leaves,  as  if  in  gratitude  for  the 
warm  suns  and  genial  showers  of  that  charming 
month.  The  birds,  confined  in  their  wiry  dwell- 
ings, were  sending  forth  their  cheerful  strains 
from  the  open  windows,  and  stretching  their 
little  throats  in  token  of  their  joy  at  the  return 
of  sunny  spring,  while  now  and  then  a  wild- 


112  THE   LONELY  BURIAL. 

wood  songster,  who  had  tried  its  wings  on  an 
excursion  to  the  wilderness  of  dwellings,  added 
its  merry  tones  to  those  of  the  less  favored  ones 
of  its  race,  who  were  debarred  the  privilege  of 
freedom.  Everything  looked  gay  and  smiling 
as  if  joy  pervaded  the  whole  earth.  Yet  was 
there  sorrow  in  the  secresy  of  many  a  dwelling, 
for  while  life  was  springing  up  anew  throughout 
the  vegetable  world,  death  had  not  forgotten  his 
mission  among  the  sons  of  men. 

The  sun  had  long  since  past  its  meridian,  as 
we  gathered  around  a  new-made  grave;  the 
coffin  was  lowered  into  its  cold  and  narrow 
receptacle,  and  its  silent  tenant  at  last  reposed 
in  the  house  appointed  for  all  living. 

It  was  a  wife  and  a  mother  to  whom  we 
were  rendering  the  last  sad  offices  of  respect 
and  affection,  and  as  the  grating  and  creaking 
of  the  cords  on  the  side  of  the  coffin,  as  they 
carefully  removed  them,  announced  that  the 
body  was  safely  deposited ;  the  low,  stifled  sobs 
of  the  bereaved  husband,  and  the  half-smothered 
wail  of  the  motherless  little  ones,  fell  in  heart- 
piercing  tones  on  the  ear.  Tears  were  wrung 
from  eyes  that  had  been  long  unused  to 


THE   LONELY   BURIAL.  113 

weeping,  and  a  strong  and  kindly  sympathy  was 
awakened  even  in  the  most  careless  heart ;  for 
all  can  feel  how  severe  must  be  the  stroke 
which  severs  a  mother  from  a  family  of  helpless 
children,  and  deprives  an  affectionate  husband, 
of  the  wife  of  his  bosom,  and  the  partner  of  his 
paternal  cares. 

The  first  shovel-full  of  earth  fell  dull  and 
heavily  upon  the  coffin,  when  the  minister, 
reverently  uncovering  his  head,  an  example 
which  was  imitated  by  all  present,  slowly  and 
emphatically  pronounced  a  burial  service.  It 
was  a  deeply  interesting  scene,  and  as  the  ex- 
pressive words,  "  Earth  to  earth,  ashes  to  ashes, 
dust  to  dust,"  broke  in  deep  and  solemn  intona- 
tions on  the  surrounding  stillness,  never  shall  I 
forget  the  new  and  untold  feelings  that  sunk 
with  them  into  my  heart.  After  a  few  touching 
words  of  consolation  had  been  presented  to  the 
mourners,  a  short  and  appropriate  prayer  was 
offered  up  to  the  Father  of  all  spirits,  and  the 
grave  was  filled  up. 

The  long  train  of  relatives  and  friends  now 
turned  sadly  away  from  the  hallowed  spot,  and 
slowly  left  the  grave-yard ;  some  occupied  in 
10* 


114  THE   LONELY   BURIAL. 

speaking  of  the  merits  and  amiable  disposition 
of  the  young  and  lovely  mother,  whom  they 
were  never  again  to  behold  in  this  world ;  some 
in  discussing  business  prospects,  or  the  important 
events  of  the  day,  while  others  still  —  those  to 
whom  the  departed  was  most  near  and  dear  — 
walked  on  in  musing  and  tearful  silence. 

I  stood  by  the  side  of  the  minister,  and  we 
were  turning  to  follow  them,  when  our  attention 
was  arrested  by  a  little  group  standing  in  a 
corner  of  the  grave-yard,  not  far  distant.  It 
consisted  of  an  aged  man  and  woman,  who 
appeared  bowed  down  either  with  sorrow  or 
with  years,  a  little  boy  apparently  about  four 
years  of  age,  and  another  person  who  seemed 
to  be  an  undertaker.  The  couple,  with  the 
little  boy  between  them,  each  holding  him 
by  the  hand,  stood  on  one  side  of  a  little 
grave,  which  the  undertaker  was  busily  engaged 
in  filling  up.  The  task  was  soon  completed, 
the  turf  nicely  smoothed  over  the  mound,  and 
the  undertaker  carelessly  departed.  But  the 
solitary  pair  still  lingered,  apparently  unable  to 
tear  themselves  from  the  spot.  At  last,  how- 
ever, the  old  man  picked  up  two  stones  which 


THE   LONELY   BURIAL.  115 

were  lying  near,  and  placing  one  at  the  head 
and  the  other  at  the  foot  of  the  little  grave,  as 
if  to  mark  it,  they,  turning  away  with  faltering 
steps,  slowly  walked  toward  the  gate.  As  they 
drew  near  the  spot  where  we  yet  remained 
standing,  we  embraced  the  opportunity  to  ob- 
serve them  more  narrowly.  They  were  humbly, 
though  not  meanly  attired,  and  the  fashion  of  their 
garments,  though  not  differing  in  a  remarkable 
degree  from  the  fashions  then  in  vogue  in  New 
York,  still  had  a  foreign  cast,  and  it  was  evi- 
dent that  they  were  strangers,  and  in  a  strange 
land. 

They  seemed  quite  unconscious  that  any  one 
beside  themselves  yet  remained  in  the  church- 
yard, so  absorbed  were  they  in  their  own  grief, 
and  we  could  therefore  look  at  them  without  the 
fear  of  wounding  their  sensibility.  As  the 
woman  turned  to  look  at  their  little  charge,  I 
saw  that  tears  were  fast  streaming  down  her 
time-worn  cheeks,  which,  in  her  desolation,  she 
sought  not  to  wipe  away ;  but  not  so  with  her 
companion,  his  eyes  were  dry  and  tearless,  and 
there  was  a  sternness  and  rigidity  mingled  with 
the  deep  sorrow  stamped  upon  his  features, 


116  THE   LONELY   BURIAL. 

which  seemed  strange  and  unnatural  in  one  so 
old.  The  little  boy  looked  up  with  a  wondering 
eye  into  the  face  of  his  protectors,  seeming  quite 
unable  to  comprehend  the  cause  of  their  grief 
and  silence,  or  his  own  situation. 

As  we  silently  regarded  this  little  group,  there 
was  a  forlornness  in  their  appearance,  thus  en- 
tirely unfriended  and  alone,  that  went  to  our 
hearts ;  for  never  are  the  kindness  and  sympathy 
of  friends  so  much  needed  as  when  wre  are  lay- 
ing our  loved  ones  in  their  last  narrow  home. 
But  to  stand  alone  by  the  grave  of  perhaps  our 
only  friend,  and,  all  uncheered  by  the  sacred 
offices  of  the  minister  of  God,  to  assist,  with  our 
own  hands,  in  depositing  that  loved  one  in  its 
last  resting-place,  and  then  to  turn  away  in  all 
the  forlornness  and  desolation  of  utter  friendless- 
ness,  seems  a  drop  too  much  for  human  nature 
in  its  weakness  to  endure. 

We  would  have  followed  and  addressed  the 
solitary  mourners,  who  were  now  leaving  the 
yard,  but  we  feared  to  invade  the  sanctity  of 
grief,  even  with  words  of  consolation,  lest  it 
might  be  attributed  to  an  idle  and  unmeaning 
curiosity.  We,  therefore,  suffered  them  to  pass 


THE   LONELY   BURIAL.  117 

from  our  sight,  as  they  had  first  met  it — utter 
strangers. 

Two  or  three  months  went  by,  but  that  lonely 
burial  was  not  forgotten.  Often  when  we  were 
gazing  after  the  long  and  imposing  train  of 
mourners,  as  they  followed  some  proud  and 
wealthy  citizen  to  his  long  home,  did  the  memory 
of  that  solitary  and  grief-stricken  pair,  standing 
alone  and  unfriended  by  the  little  grave,  rise  up 
in  sickening  contrast  before  us.  Often  had  we 
tasked  our  imagination  to  present  us  some  prob- 
able conjecture  as  to  who  and  what  those  be- 
reaved and  friendless  strangers  might  be ;  for 
there  are  few  so  utterly  alone  in  the  world  as  to 
have  no  one  to  sympathize  with,  and  assist  them 
in  an  hour  like  that.  But  it  was  in  vain  that 
•we  indulged  in  fancies  which  could  give  no  clew 
to  the  fact,  and  only  left  us  as  unsatisfied  as 
before. 


118  THE  LONELY  BURIAL. 


CHAPTER  II. 

"  Wanderer !  bowed  with  griefs  and  years, 

Wanderer  with  the  cheek  so  pale, 
Oh,  give  language  to  those  tears  ! 
Tell  their  melancholy  tale  !" 

Waiiderer  of  Switzerland. 

IT  was  the  third  day  of  September,  when  Mr. 
Grant  —  the  clergyman  who  officiated  at  the 
burial-service  with  which  my  tale  opens  —  was 
solicited  to  visit  a  sick  person,  residing  in  a  nar- 
row and  secluded  street,  at  some  distance  from 
his  dwelling.  She  was  a  poor,  childless  widow, 
occupying  a  garret  bed-room,  in  a  miserable 
tenement,  without  relatives  and  without  friends. 
Chance  had  led  her  a  few  times  to  the  church 
over  which  Mr.  Grant  presided  as  pastor,  and 
sick  and  destitute,  she  now  begged  his  sympathy 
and  relief.  Ever  ready  to  heed  the  call  of  the 
needy  and  distressed,  he  obeyed  the  summons  of 
the  poor  widow,  and  after  remaining  some  time 


THE  LONELY  BURIAL.  119 

with  her,  and  comforting  her  aged  heart  not 
only  with  kind  words,  but  kind  deeds  also, 
he  took  leave  of  her  and  departed,  leaving 
her  the  happier  and  more  cheerful  for  his 
visit. 

As  he  was  passing  down  the  narrow  staircase, 
he  heard  a  low,  stifled  sobbing,  which  proceeded 
from  a  room  on  the  second  floor,  the  door  of 
which  was  slightly  ajar.  He  paused  a  few  mo- 
ments, uncertain  whether  to  enter  or  pass  on, 
but  a  continuation  of  the  same  sounds  of  distress, 
at  length  decided  him,  and  opening  the  door,  he 
stepped  into  the  room. 

A  woman  considerably  advanced  in  years, 
and  seemingly  overwhelmed  with  grief,  was 
seated  by  a  low  bed,  on  which  lay  a  young  girl, 
about  nineteen  years  of  age,  and  of  a  delicacy  and 
sweetness  of  countenance,  not  often  seen.  Her 
long,  fair  hair,  was  parted  over  a  broad,  smooth 
forehead,  and,  terminating  in  soft  ringlets,  hung 
carelessly  over  the  pillow.  There  was  a  bright 
spot  on  either  cheek,  and  a  restlessness  in  her 
dark,  blue  eye,  which  betokened  pain  and  suf- 
fering. She  was  apparently  laboring  under 
some  paralytic  affection,  for  as  she  attempted  to 


120  THE   LONELY   BURIAL. 

raise  her  hand  to  her  head,  it  shook  violently, 
and  fell  powerless  by  her  side,  while  a  sharp 
spasm  for  a  moment  contracted  one  side  of  her 
face.  In  one  corner  of  the  room  sat  an  old  gen- 
tleman, in  the  disconsolate  attitude  of  utter 
despondency;  his  elbows  resting  on  his  knees, 
his  face  buried  in  his  hands,  and  his  long,  gray 
locks  hanging,  dank  and  matted,  down  his 
cheeks.  On  a  low  stool  by  his  side,  his  little 
hands  resting  on  the  old  man's  knees,  sat  a  pale- 
faced  boy,  apparently  about  four  years  of  age, 
who  was  gazing  earnestly  and  silently  toward 
the  sick  girl,  while  his  little  lip  occasionally 
quivered,  as  if  with  suppressed  emotion,  and  his 
large,  black  eyes  were  brimming  with  tears. 

The  entrance  of  their  visiter  was  unobserved, 
and  he  stood  for  a  few  minutes,  a  sympathizing 
spectator  of  the  sorrowful  scene. 

"  Do  not  grieve  so,  dear  mother,"  after  a  long 
and  tender  gaze  at  her  weeping  parent,  the  sick 
girl,  in  a  soft,  sweet  voice,  at  length  exclaimed. 
"  I  am  sure  I  am  better  than  I  was.  My  limbs 
do  not  tremble  so  violently,  and  I  feel  much 
stronger.  I  shall  soon  be  able  to  return  to  my 


THE    LONELY    BURIAL.  121' 

employment  again,  and  then  we  shall  all  be 
comfortable  and  happy  once  more." 

A-  fresh  burst  of  tears,  and  a  mournful  shake 
of  the  head,  were  the  mother's  only  reply. 

Mr.  Grant  now  advanced  toward  the  bedside, 
and  as  the  mother  turned  her  face  toward  him, 
he  instantly  recognised  in  her  one  of  the  friend- 
less mourners  of  the  lonely  burial.  She  was 
somewhat  surprised  at  the  sudden  appearance  of 
a  stranger  in  her  apartment,  but  received  him 
without  embarrassment,  and  with  a  courteous, 
though  homely  civility,  requested  him  to  be 
seated. 

Her  address  aroused  the  old  man  from  his 
desponding  attitude,  and  as  he  too  arose  to  re- 
ceive the  stranger,  Mr.  Grant  was  at  no  loss  to 
identify  him  also.  But,  though  unchanged  in 
other  respects,  he  saw  that  his  countenance  had 
lost  the  rigidity  and  sternness,  which  had  char- 
acterized it  on  the  mournful  occasion  when  he 
had  first  beheld  him.  Hopeless  and  unresisted 
sorrow  seemed  now  its  predominant  expression, 
and  he  looked  at  Mr.  Grant,  as  if  thinking  it 
scarcely  possible  that  his  visit  could  be  one  of 
kindness. 

11 


122  THE   LONELY  BURIAL. 

"  Excuse  my  intrusion,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Grant, 
hastening  to  reply  to  the  old  man's  look,  "  but 
as  I  was  passing  your  door,  I  heard  sounds  of 
distress  proceeding  from  the  room,  and  thinking 
that  perhaps  some  assistance  might  be  needed,  I 
entered  to  proffer  my  services.  I  am  a  clergy- 
man, and  you  need  not  fear  accepting  them." 

"  Services !"  exclaimed  the  old  man,  with  a 
bitter  smile,  "  We  are  poor,  and  have  no  money 
to  pay  you  for  services !  And  I  have  been  long 
enough  in  this  country  to  learn  that  they  are 
never  rendered  without  the  expectation  of  pay ! 
No,  sir,  I  thank  you,  but  we  cannot  afford  to  re- 
ceive any  services;"  and  with  another  bitter 
smile  he  returned  to  his  seat  in  the  corner  of  the 
room,  and  again  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"  You  must  have  been  very  unfortunate,"  said 
Mr.  Grant,  following  the  old  man  to  his  seat, 
"  if  you  have  had  reason  to  come  to  this  con- 
clusion. Nevertheless,  I  beg  you  to  believe  that 
I  proffer  my  assistance  in  sincerity,  and  without 
the  hope  of  reward,  and  whatever  services  you 
may  need,  that  are  within  the  range  of  my 
ability,  they  shall  be  cheerfully  rendered." 


THE   LONELY   BURIAL.  123 

The  old  man  again  looked  up  to  the  face  of 
Mr.  Grant,  but  with  a  puzzled  and  doubtful  ex- 
pression, as  if  not  more  than  half  believing  the 
words  that  met  his  ear. 

"  You  will  pardon  one,  whom  misfortune  has 
almost  rendered  desperate,  if  he  is  insensible  to 
your  kindness,"  said  the  poor  woman,  who  was 
now  at  his  side.  "  But  we  have  been  so  long 
strangers  to  anything  like  kindness,  that  it 
hardly  seems  a  reality  when  it  is  offered  us.  You 
are  the  first  one  whom  we  have  heard  breathe 
its  language  since  we  landed  on  the  American 
shore ;  but  oh,  how  bitterly  have  we  often  felt  its 
need!" 

"  What  country  are  you  from  ?"  inquired  Mr. 
Grant. 

"  We  are  from  Scotland ;  and  would  to  God 
it  had  never  been  our  evil  fortune  to  leave  that 
country  !"  she  replied,  the  tears  rolling  again 
down  her  cheeks.  "  There  we  were  blest  with 
health,  and  a  competence  sufficient  for  our  com- 
fortable support.  Here  we  have  suffered  all  the 
ills  of  poverty,  sickness,  and  death.  Disappoint- 
ment met  us  at  our  first  landing,  and  disappoint- 


124  THE   LONELY   BURIAL. 

ment  and  trouble  have  dogged  our  footsteps  ever 
since." 

"  Why  did  you  leave  Scotland  ?"  inquired 
Mr.  Grant,  deeply  interested.  "  It  must  have 
required  strong  inducements  to  prompt  you  to 
forsake  home  and  country  at  your  time  of  life." 

"  And  we  had  strong  inducements  ;  otherwise 
we  should  never  have  come  here,"  answered 
the  woman,  drawing  her  chair  nearer  to  her 
sympathizing  auditor,  who  was  now  seated. 
"  The  Scotch  are  too  clanish,  too  much  attach- 
ed to  their  hills  and  heather,  to  be  drawn  away 
from  them  by  light  reasons.  If  you  are  willing 
to  listen  to  a  garrulous  old  woman,  who  has  not 
had  a  friend  to  whom  to  open  her  heart  for  many 
a  day,  it  would  be  a  relief  to  me  to  tell  you  our 
story." 

"  Tell  it  without  reserve,  if  you  can  trust  me," 
warmly  replied  Mr.  Grant,  "  I  may  be  better 
able  to  render  you  assistance." 

"  Well,  then,  according  to  the  prescribed  rules 
of  most  story-tellers,"  said  the  poor  woman, 
with  a  faint  smile,  "  I  will  begin  my  narrative 
by  telling  you  our  name,  which  is  the  common 
one  of  Campbell.  When,  in  our  own  land,  we 


THE   LONELY   BURIAL.  125 

did  not  belong  to  the  poorest  class,  among  which 
adverse  fortune  has  assigned  us  a  station  in 
this  country,  we  were  then  what  are  termed '  good 
livers ;'  that  is,  we  had  enough  to  eat,  drink,  and 
to  wear,  without  being  obliged  to  labor  more  than 
was  conducive  to  our  health  and  happiness.  We 
were  married  early  in  life,  and  were  blest  with 
three  children,  one  son  and  two  daughters,  one 
of  whom  is  the  poor  girl,  whom  you  see  lying 
sick  and  helpless  on  that  little  bed,  and  the 
other  one  sleeps  beneath  the  ever-restless  waters 
of  the  Atlantic.  We  were  prospered  in  all  our 
undertakings,  and  life  looked  fair  before  us.  Our 
children  grew  up  virtuous  and  healthy,  and,  in 
due  time,  we  had  the  happiness  of  seeing  our 
eldest  daughter  married  to  a  man,  in  every  re- 
spect her  equal,  with  every  prospect  of  happiness 
and  long  life  before  her. 

"  About  four  years  ago,  our  son,  who  was  then 
about  two-and-twenty,  was  seized  with  a  strong 
desire  of  visiting  this  country.  You  can  scarcely 
imagine  the  extravagant  notions  that  are  enter- 
tained in  Europe  in  relation  to  the  United 
States.  Captains  of  vessels,  ship-owners,  and 
other  interested  persons,  have,  for  years,  taken 
10* 


126  THE   LONELY   BURIAL. 

the  utmost  pains  to  spread  abroad  the  idea,  that 
a  young  man  has  but  to  emigrate  to  this  coun- 
try, to  realize  at  once  a  handsome  fortune.  In- 
deed, such  are  the  false  impressions  given  by  the 
representations  of  these  men,  that  many  actually 
suppose  that  money  is  so  plenty  here,  that  it  will 
almost  fall  into  their  pockets,  without  the  trouble 
of  seeking  it.  Many  and  many  a  young  man 
has  found  to  his  cost,  when  he  has  arrived  here, 
how  fatally  he  has  been  deceived. 

"  Our  son,  at  the  time  I  speak  of,  was  engaged 
in  a  profitable  mercantile  business  in  Edin- 
borough.  He  had  inherited  a  bequest  of  several 
thousand  dollars  from  an  uncle,  who  had  recently 
died,  and  possessed  a  handsome  and  unencum- 
bered capital.  But  he  was  seized  with  the  pre- 
vailing mania  for  emigration,  and  though  his 
father  and  myself  said  everything  in  our  power 
to  dissuade  him  from  the  project,  he  was  bent  on 
trying  his  fortune  in  this  land  of  enterprise  and 
speculation.  His  business  was  soon  favorably 
disposed ;  his  money  invested  in  merchandise, 
and  all  other  arrangements  completed,  when,  ac- 
companied by  a  young  man,  by  the  name  of 
Maurice  Logan,  whom  he  had  taken  into 


THE   LONELY   BURIAL.  127 

partnership,  and  who  was  affianced  and  soon  to 
have  been  married  to  our  poor  Rose,  who  lies 
there  so  helpless,  he  embarked  in  a  mer- 
chant vessel,  and  was  soon  on  his  way  to  the 
United  States. 

"  After  a  short  and  favorable  voyage,  they 
landed  in  New  York,  and  were  soon  established 
in  one  of  the  principal  streets,  and  doing  a  busi- 
ness far  more  prosperous  and  lucrative,  than  in 
their  most  sanguine  moments  they  had  even 
dared  to  hope.  Their  capital  was  in  a  short 
time  doubled,  and  the  firm  of  'Campbell  & 
Logan,'  soon  known  as  one  of  the  most  prosper- 
ous and  thriving  in  the  street.  We  received 
letters  from  Edward,  as  well  as  Logan,  every 
two  or  three  months,  and  they  constantly  gave 
the  most  flattering  accounts  of  their  success. 

"After  about  a  year,  the  letters  of  Logan  began 
to  speak  of  a  return  to  Scotland,  for  the  purpose 
of  inducing  Rose  to  marry,  and  return  with  him 
to  his  new  home.  It  was  long  before  the  poor 
girl  could  make  up  her  mind  to  this  arrange- 
ment, but  after  a  hard  struggle  between  affec- 
tion for  her  parents,  and  love  for  him,  she  at 
length  yielded  to  his  urgent  and  continued  en- 


128  THE  LONELY  BURIAL. 

treaties,  and  preparations  were  commenced  for 
her  marriage  and  removal. 

"But  circumstances  soon  occurred  to  produce  a 
change  in  the  prospects  and  arrangements  of  the 
young  couple.  Hard  times  came  on,  the  busi- 
ness of  the  mercantile  world  was  hopelessly  de- 
ranged, and  it  was  thought  expedient  that  the 
marriage  should  be  deferred  until  more  fortunate 
times.  This  was  accordingly  decided  on,  and  all 
preparations  for  a  time  postponed. 

"  Meanwhile  the  letters  of  Edward  were  as  kind 
and  frequent  as  ever.  He  often  sent  us  little 
presents,  and  still  spoke  of  their  business  as 
good,  for,  although  they  were  not  making  money 
so  rapidly  as  at  first,  still,  so  careful  had  been 
their  management,  their  losses  had  been  com- 
paratively small,  and  they  were  yet  able  to  make 
a  comfortable  living. 

"  It  was  at  length  proposed  by  Edward,  that  as 
his  residence,  as  well  that  of  Logan  in  this  coun- 
try, would  probably  be  permanent,  we  should 
dispose  of  our  property  in  Scotland,  and  fix  our 
abode  here  also.  A  fear  that  the  marriage  of 
Rose  would  soon  separate  her  from  us  perhaps 
for  life,  should  we  remain  in  our  own  country, 


THE   LONELY   BURIAL.  129 

weighed  much  in  our  minds  in  favor  of  acceding 
to  our  son's  proposition.  Added  to  this,  our 
eldest  daughter,  having  recently  lost  her  hus- 
band, had  returned  to  us  with  her  two  small  chil- 
dren, leaving  little  to  bind  us  to  Scotland,  save 
the  warm  and  natural  attachment  which  one 
commonly  feels  for  his  native  lanfc  A  brief  de- 
liberation, therefore,  sufficed  to  establish  our 
wavering  resolutions,  and  determine  us  to  emi- 
grate. 

"  There  was,  however,  some  delay  in  disposing 
of  our  property  to  good  advantage,  and  we  were 
not  able  to  complete  our  arrangements  for  leav- 
ing our  country  so  soon  as  we  intended,  or  so 
soon  as  Edward  expected  us.  All  was,  how- 
ever, at  last  ready.  We  set  sail  with  a  favor- 
able wind  about  the  middle  of  November,  and 
everything  betokened  a  good  passage.  But  at 
that  season  of  the  year,  the  voyager  is  extremely 
liable  to  frequent,  and  sudden  changes  of  weather, 
and  we  had  been  at  sea  about  three  weeks, 
when  a  violent  storm  arose,  which  continued  for 
several  days  without  intermission  and  without 
abatement.  Our  vessel  was  not  able  to  with- 
stand its  violence,  and  the  third  day  after  the 


130  THE   LONELY   BURIAL. 

commencement  of  the  storm,  she  lay  a  helpless 
and  unmanageable  wreck  on  the  wide  ocean. 
Fortunately,  however,  the  storm  had  by  this 
time  somewhat  abated,  or  we  should  most  likely 
have  all  been  lost.  We  clung  to  the  vessel  as 
long  as  possible,  until  she  began  to  show  signs 
of  sinking,  when  the  captain  ordered  out  the 
boats,  and  the  wreck  was  abandoned.  Unfor- 
tunately, our  boats  were  small,  and  very  much 
crowded,  and  it  being  entirely  uncertain  how 
long  we  should  be  obliged  to  remain  in  them, 
the  captain  absolutely  refused  to  allow  anything 
save  the  merest  necessaries  of  life  to  be  taken 
on  board.  Our  property  which  we  had  mostly 
invested  in  goods  for  our  son,  was  therefore 
irretrievably  lost,  nothing  being  left  to  us  but  a 
few  clothes,  and  the  little  money  we  chanced 
to  have  about  us,  amounting  in  all  to  but  a  few 
hundred  dollars. 

"  In  less  than  an  hour  after  we  had  abandoned 
the  wreck  it  went  down,  and  we  were  alone  on 
the  wide  ocean,  tossed  about  by  the  winds  and 
waves,  in  frail  boats  which  threatened  every 
moment  to  go  to  pieces.  Fortunately,  however, 
a  vessel  soon  hove  in  sight,  and  we  were  seen 


THE   LONELY   BURIAL.  131 

and  taken  on  board.  It  proved  to  be  an  English 
vessel  bound  for  New  York,  and  we  were  there- 
fore happily  spared  the  evils  of  being  landed  in 
a  foreign  port. 

"  The  second  day  after  we  entered  this  vessel, 
our  eldest  daughter  complained  of  illness.  The 
exposure,  fatigue,  and  alarm  occasioned  by  the 
storm  through  which  we  had  passed,  had  been 
too  much  for  her.  Her  illness  rapidly  increased, 
there  was  no  physician  on  board,  and  three  days 
before  we  reached  New  York,  she  was  consign- 
ed to  the  deep,  a  breathless,  motionless  corpse. 
It  was  a  terrible  blow  to  us,  though  merciful 
compared  with  what  we  have  since  suffered, 
and  we  felt  a  fearful  presentiment  that  our 
voyage  would  prove,  in  every  respect,  an  ill- 
fated  one.  Alas!  that  presentiment  has  been 
but  too  fearfully  realized. 


THE    LONELY    BURIAL. 


CHAPTER  III. 

"  Alone,  amid  their  hearth-fires, 
I  watched  my  child's  decay ; 
Uncheered  I  saw  the  spirit  light, 
From  his  young  eyes  fade  away. 

"  When  his  head  sank  on  my  bosom, 

When  the  death-sleep  o'er  him  fell, 
Was  there  one  to  say  — '  A  friend  is  near'  ? 
There  was  none  !  —  my  child,  farewell !" 

HEMANS. 

"  WE  landed  in  New  York,  on  the  24th  of 
December,  and  immediately  proceeded  to  the 
street  and  number,  to  which  we  had  always 
directed  our  letters  to  our  son  and  Logan,  ex- 
pecting to  meet  them  at  once.  You  may  judge 
how  bitter  must  have  been  our  disappointment, 
to  learn  that  the  firm  of  '  Campbell  &  Logan,' 
had  either  broken  up  or  removed,  and  the  per- 
sons who  occupied  the  store  were  not  able  to 


THE   LONELY    BURIAL  133 

give  us  any  information  concerning  them.  We 
made  inquiries  in  the  neighborhood,  and  were 
at  last  informed  by  a  merchant,  who  seemed  to 
pity  our  distress  and  disappointment,  that  he  had 
understood  they  had  about  six  months  since  re- 
moved to  the  west.  But  where,  he  could  not 
acquaint  us. 

"  What  course  to  pursue  in  so  unfortunate 
and  unexpected  an  emergency,  we  were  entirely 
at  a  loss  to  determine.  Where  could  they  have 
gone  ?  We  could  not  believe  that  they  had  left 
the  city,  without  leaving  some  letter  or  message 
for  us,  whom  they  must  certainly  have  expected. 
But  with  whom  could  that  letter  or  message 
have  been  left?  Here  all  was  darkness  and 
uncertainty. 

"  We  were  stopping  at  a  foreign  boarding- 
house,  a  miserable  place,  but  as  good  as  our 
means  would  allow,  and  my  husband  went  every 
day  to  the  post  office,  thinking  that  he  might, 
perhaps,  at  last  find  a  letter,  which  would  furnish 
him  with  a  clew  to  the  present  residence  of  our 
son  and  Logan.  But  as  he  returned  day  after 
day,  and  always  with  the  same  ill-success,  hope 
died  away  in  our  hearts,  and  my  husband  even 


134  THE   LONELY   BURIAL. 

began  to  fancy  that  their  absence  was  a  pre- 
meditated and  intentional  plan  to  be  rid  of  the 
trouble  of  receiving  and  assisting  us.  I  com- 
bated this  unhappy  notion  by  every  argument 
in  my  power,  and  Rose,  too,  resolutely  refused 
to  lend  the  least  credence  to  so  improbable  a 
conjecture.  But  in  spite  of  her  fearless  defence 
of  her  brother  and  lover,  I  saw  that  she  was 
restless  and  miserable.  She  lost  her  appetite, 
her  color  faded,  and  while  she  affected  a  forced 
and  unnatural  cheerfulness,  I  often  surprised  her 
in  tears. 

"  But  we  soon  began  to  feel  it  necessary  to 
adopt  some  settled  plan  of  living,  so  as  to  make 
our  little  means  hold  out  as  long  as  possible. 
We  accordingly  hired  two  small  rooms  at  a 
reasonable  rent,  and  were  soon  settled  down  for 
the  winter.  Constantly  endeavoring  to  buoy  up 
herself  and  us  with  the  hope  of  seeing  or  hear- 
ing from  Edward  and  Maurice  in  the  spring, 
Rose  was  our  greatest  comfort  in  every  despond- 
ing hour.  As  she  was  naturally  of  a  very  in- 
genious turn,  she  soon  contrived  means  to  earn 
a  little  money,  so  as  to  make  our  own  little 
funds  hold  out  the  longer.  She  made  various 


THE    LONELY    BURIAL,  135 

elegant  little  fancy  articles,  which  she  disposed 
of  to  good  advantage,  at  a  foreign  repository  for 
such  articles  in  Broadway ;  and  so  much  were 
they  pleased  with  her  work,  that  they  gave  her 
constant  employment,  and  at  a  very  tolerable 
price ;  so  that  we  had  to  draw  much  less  on  our 
little  store  of  money  than  you  would  have  be- 
lieved possible. 

"  But,  unaccustomed  to  the  close  confinement 
and  constant  employment  of  the  needle,  to 
which  she  now  resolutely  subjected  herself,  the 
health  of  poor  Rose  began  to  fail.  Neverthe- 
less, she  still  persisted  in  her  arduous  sedentary 
labors,  constantly  affirming  that  she  felt  no  ill 
effects  from  it,  though  her  slight  appetite,  and 
faded  cheeks,  but  too  plainly  contradicted  her 
assertions.  The  youngest  child  of  our  poor 
daughter  who  was  buried  in  the  sea,  began  also 
to  show  signs  of  severe  illness.  Day  after  day 
the  delicate  boy  became  more  and  more  drooping, 
until  he  could  no  longer  hold  up  his  head.  We 
applied  to  a  physician  who  lived  near  us,  and 
he  for  a  time  attended  him ;  but  in  spite  of  his 
exertions,  and  our  own  unwearied  care,  he  con- 
stantly grew  worse  and  worse,  and  before  Feb- 


136  THE   LONELY   BURIAL. 

ruary  was  at  an  end,  he  was  pronounced  beyond 
the  hope  of  cure. 

"  Anxiety  of  mind,  and  her  severe  personal  la- 
bors, were  meanwhile  operating  fatally  against 
our  dear  Rose,  and  about  the  middle  of  March, 
she  was  obliged  to  relinquish  all  employment, 
and  take  to  her  bed.  We  again  summoned  the 
physician,  but  so  far  from  benefiting,  his  pre- 
scriptions seemed  rather  to  injure  her.  At  length 
her  disease  seemed  to  assume  a  new  form,  and 
she  became  gradually  afflicted,  as  you  see  her 
now,  with  a  painful  spasmodic  affection.  Her 
limbs  on  one  side  became  almost  wholly  useless. 
If  she  attempted  to  walk,  they  would  suddenly 
fail  beneath  her,  and  if  she  made  an  effort  to 
sew,  her  needle  would  fall  from  her  hand,  and 
her  arm  shake  as  if  in  convulsions.  Finding  that 
all  the  efforts  of  the  physician  proved  entirely 
unavailing,  and  our  rapidly  sinking  funds  warn- 
ing us  that  we  could  not  much  longer  meet  his 
heavy  charges — for  he  demanded  and  received 
twelve  shillings  for  every  visit  he  made  her,  and 
an  equal  sum  almost  every  week  for  the  different 
preparations  with  which  he  furnished  us  —  we 
finally  dismissed  him. 


THE   LONELY   BURIAL.  137 

"  As  it  was  absolutely  necessary  to  retrench 
our  expenses  in  every  possible  way,  on  the  first 
of  April  we  paid  our  month's  rent,  and  removed 
to  this  tenement,  which  we  obtained  at  less  than 
half  the  price  of  the  other.  But  we  were  hardly 
settled  in  our  new  abode,  when  our  little  one 
seemed  rapidly  sinking,  and  in  one  week  more 
he  died. 

"My  husband,  always  somewhat  inclined  to 
despondency  of  disposition,  had,  under  the  influ- 
ence of  our  adverse  circumstances,  and  the  un- 
accountable absence  of  our  son,  long  been  be- 
coming much  more  so.  A  melancholy  gloom 
seemed  now  constantly  brooding  over  his  mind, 
which  the  death  of  our  little  grandchild,  deepened 
into  despair.  We  had  kept  ourselves  quietly 
aloof  from  our  neighbors,  who  were  mostly  of  a 
low  and  noisy  character,  and  having  no  friends 
or  acquaintances  to  sympathize  with  and  assist 
us  in  our  bereavement,  my  husband  absolutely 
refused  his  permission,  when  I  proposed  that  we 
should  call  in  one  of  our  neighbors  to  assist  in 
the  performance  of  the  last  sad  duties  to  our 
child,  which  I  shrunk  from  undertaking  alone. 

"  'No,'  he  exclaimed, '  we  have  been  forsaken 
12* 


138  THE   LONELY   BURIAL. 

in  a  land  of  strangers  by  our  own  child,  and 
another  who  was  to  have  been  our  child,  and 
strangers  shall  not  look  us  in  the  face,  and  say, 
you  are  under  obligations  to  us.  No,  we  will 
bury  our  dead,  as  we  have  watched  him  through 
his  sickness,  and  seen  him  die  —  alone.  Say  no 
more  on  the  subject,  but  make  such  preparations 
as  our  poverty  will  allow,  and  let  us  carry  our 
child  to  his  grave.' 

"  To  you,  who  have  never  known  the  forlorn- 
ness  and  desolation  which  come  over  his  heart, 
who  feels  that  he  has  been  forsaken  in  a  land  of 
strangers,  by  his  own  child,  this  command  of  my 
husband  may  appear  harsh  and  unfeeling;  but, 
to  me,  who  was  acquainted  with  all  the  wind- 
ings of  his  nature,  it  wore  a  different  aspect,  I 
felt  that  it  was  the  echo  of  a  breaking  heart, 
and  turning  away  my  face  to  conceal  my  an- 
guish from  one  who  had  enough  of  his  own  to 
bear,  I  acquiesced  without  a  dissenting  word, 
while  my  husband  seated  himself  as  you  see 
him  now,  apparently  forgetful  of  everything 
around  him. 

"  Rose,  who  had  slept  while  the  last  sad  change 
-was  passing  over  our  child,  was  still  sleeping, 


THE   LONELY  BURIAL.  139 

and,  as  I  was  anxious  to  spare  her  the  sight  of 
everything  agitating,  I  hastened  to  perform  my 
last  trying  duties  before  she  should  awake. 
Softly  and  without  a  tear,  I  lifted  the  motionless 
and  still  beautiful  child  from  its  bed,  and  bear- 
ing it  to  a  table  in  a  remote  corner  of  our  only 
room,  commenced  my  melancholy  task.  I  ten- 
derly closed  the  dim  and  rayless  eyes ;  I  care- 
fully straightened  the  delicate  and  emaciated 
limbs ;  and,  then  arranging  the  soft  and  glossy 
ringlets  around  its  snowy  brow,  with  a  heavy 
heart  enveloped  its  icy  form  in  a  little  robe 
which  it  had  worn  in  its  happy  infancy.  This 
done,  I  impressed  a  long,  long  kiss  upon  its  half- 
closed  violet  lips,  and  was  preparing  to  cover  the 
dear  object  from  my  sight,  when  I  was  startled 
by  the  soft,  low  call  of  'mother,'  and  at  the 
same  moment  felt  a  hand  on  my  dress  behind.  I 
instantly  turned,  and  there  stood  little  James,  his 
arm  encircling  the  neck  of  poor  Rose,  who  had 
slid  softly  out  of  bed,  and  had  contrived  to  creep 
on  her  hands  and  knees  to  my  side.  She  had 
awakened  during  my  melancholy  operations,  and, 
in  an  instant,  comprehending  the  whole  truth, 
had  silently  crept  toward  me,  with  the  intention 


140  THE   LONELY   BURIAL. 

of  trying  to  assist  me  at  my  mournful  task.  She 
was  shaking  more  violently  than  1  had  ever  seen 
her,  and,  as  I  looked  down  into  the  sorrowful 
face  of  the  dear,  helpless  girl,  all  my  long  sup- 
pressed feelings  at  length  burst  forth,  and  sink- 
ing on  my  knees  by  her  side,  I  threw  my  arms 
around  her  waist,  and  wept  long  and  bitterly. 
My  husband,  aroused  from  his  fit  of  grief  and 
abstraction,  by  my  sobs,  arose  and  drew  near 
us.  He  gently  raised  poor  Rose  from  the  floor, 
and,  with  the  first  touch  of  natural  feeling  and 
tenderness,  he  had  yet  discovered  through  all 
that  melancholy  day,  kindly  and  patiently  sup- 
ported the  dear  girl,  while  she  gazed  upon  the 
dead  face  of  the  sweet  boy,  who  had  been  so 
cherished  by  us  all. 

"'It  is  the  Lord's  will,  and  let  us  submit !'  he 
exclaimed,  the  tears  rolling  down  his  cheeks, 
and  taking  the  weeping  and  helpless  Rose  in  his 
arms,  tenderly  laid  her  once  more  upon  the  bed. 
The  little  James,  with  a  bewildered  air,  that 
was  piteous  to  behold,  and  keeping  fast  hold  of 
her  frock,  followed  close  behind,  and,  creeping 
into  bed  by  her  side,  nestled  his  face  close  to 
hers,  and  lay  perfectly  still  and  silent ;  and,  for 


THE   LONELY   BURIAL.  141 

several  hours,  no  inducement  could  prevail  upon 
him  to  turn  his  eyes  toward  that  part  of  the  room 
where  lay  his  dead  brother. 

"I  softly  covered  up  the  little  motionless  form, 
and  waiting  until  our  daughter  was  composed 
and  quiet,  my  husband  took  up  his  hat,  and  left 
the  house.  He  soon  returned,  accompanied  by 
an  undertaker,  who  resided  in  the  neighborhood ; 
arrangements  for  the  burial,  that  same  afternoon, 
were  soon  made,  and  the  undertaker  left  us  to 
make  the  necessary  preparations.  In  about  two 
hours  he  came  back  once  more ;  the  sad  duty  of 
depositing  our  little  one  in  its  narrow  house, 
was  reverently  performed,  the  weeping  Rose 
had  taken  her  last,  long  look,  and  we  departed. 
The  undertaker  lifted  the  precious  burden  under 
his  arm,  and,  walking  on  before  us,  we  took  our 
remaining  grandchild  by  the  hand,  and  slowly 
followed,  leaving  Rose  to  all  the  mournful  soli- 
tude and  friendlessness  of  her  sick  room. 

"  Never  shall  I  forget  that  melancholy  walk ! 
Even  the  meanest  laborer,  paused  in  his  em- 
ployment, to  gaze  at  and  pity  the  unfriended 
mourners  of  that  little  procession.  Many  an 
open  window  was  filled  with  a  wondering  and 


142  THE   LONELY   BURIAL. 

sympathizing  group,  and  many  a  riotous  boy 
suddenly  checked  his  mirth,  and  stood  respect- 
fully aside,  as  we  past  him,  in  our  mournful  way. 

"At  last  we  reached  the  graveyard,  and 
while  my  heart  was  swelling  with  bitter  anguish 
at  the  thought  that  we  were  burying,  as  we  had 
buried  its  mother,  without  the  sacred  services  of 
religion,  the  orphan  child  of  that  loved  daughter, 
who  slept  in  the  wide  waste  of  the  Atlantic, 
my  husband,  assisted  by  the  undertaker,  lowered 
the  coffin  into  its  narrow  receptacle.  Then, 
slowly  uncovering  his  head,  he  clasped  his  hands 
fervently  together,  and  poured  out  a  prayer  to 
God,  more  acceptable,  I  believe,  in  the  sight  of 
that  holy  being,  than  many  a  one  which  has 
fallen  from  the  lips  of  the  proud  and  titled  divine. 
The  grave  was  then  filled  up,  and  after  marking 
the  spot,  and  bidding  a  silent  farewell  to  its  lit- 
tle tenant,  we  left  it,  and  returned  once  more  to 
our  suffering  daughter  and  melancholy  home. 

Our  days  since  that  period  have  been  past  in 
sad  and  wearisome  monotony.  No  intelligence 
of  our  absent  son  or  Logan  has  yet  reached  us, 
and  we  have  almost  ceased  to  expect  it.  Even 
Rose  no  longer  endeavors  to  cheer  our  hearts 


THE    LONELY    BURIAL.  143 

by  an  encouraging  word,  while  her  own  situa- 
tion, so  far  from  improving,  seems  rather,  as 
week  after  week  passes  over  her  head,  to  grow 
more  and  more  hopeless.  My  husband  sunk  in 
utter  despondency,  spends  the  greater  portion 
of  his  time,  as  you  see  him  now,  too  abstracted 
and  gloomy  to  heed  anything  that  is  passing 
around  him.  The  yearning  he  feels  for  our  early 
home,  the  loss  of  our  property,  the  death  of  our 
daughter  and  her  orphan  child,  together  with 
the  strange  absence  of  our  son,  have  been  too 
much  for  him,  and  I  sometimes  fear  his  senses 
are  fatally  impaired. 

"  What  will  become  of  us,  God  only  knows ! 
for  our  money  is  now  almost  entirely  gone.  If 
poor  Rose  should  ever  recover,  which  I  hardly 
dare  to  hope,  we  may  yet  live  without  appeal- 
ing to  public  charity.  Otherwise  there  can  be 
but  one  fate  for  us,  for  my  husband  is,  I  fear, 
entirely  unable  to  make  an  effort  for  our 
support." 


144  THE   LONELY    BURIAL, 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  There  never  was  a  night  too  dark  to  be  followed  by 
day."— Old  Saw. 

«  But  Time,  the  destroyer,  yet  kindly  shall  bring 
A  charm  for  each  suffering,  a  balm  for  each  sting ; 
And  the  tear-drops  of  anguish  while  yet  in  its  flow 
Is  dried  by  the  warmth  of  hope's  heavenly  glow." 

THE  poor  mother  finished  her  recital,  and 
wiping  her  tearful  eyes,  arose  and  went  to  the 
bedside  of  her  daughter  who  had  sometime  since 
fallen  asleep,  and  after  gazing  tenderly  upon  her 
for  a  few  moments,  softly  kissed  her  beautiful 
cheek,  and  with  a  deep  sigh  returned  to  her 
seat.  "  Poor  girl,"  she  exclaimed,  "  I  fear  that 
is  her  death-bed!" 

"I  hope  not!"  said  Mr.  Grant,  who  had 
been  a  deeply-moved  auditor  of  the  sorrowful 
tale  of  Mrs.  Campbell ;  "  I  think  she  may  be 
cured.  And  if  you  will  give  me  permission,  I 
•will  bring  a  skilful  physician  of  my  acquaintance 
to  examine  her  case." 


THE  LONELY  BURIAL.  145 

The  word  physician  seemed  to  arouse  the  old 
man  from  his  abstraction,  for  immediately  rais- 
ing his  head,  he  exclaimed,  "A  physician!  I 
have  no  money  to  pay  a  physician,  and  if  I  had, 
he  would  only  torment  her  to  no  purpose.  The 
physicians  in  this  country  are  all  a  set  of  leeches 
—  they  would  draw  the  last  cent  from  your 
pocket,  and  then  leave  you  to  die  without  the 
smallest  remnant  of  pity !  I  want  to  see  no 
more  physicians !" 

"  You  are  mistaken,  my  dear  sir ;  believe 
me  you  are  entirely  mistaken !"  said  Mr.  Grant ; 
"  there  are  many,  very  many  kind-hearted,  be- 
nevolent men  who  are  physicians.  You  have 
unfortunately  since  you  arrived  in  this  country 
been  acquainted  only  with  an  ignorant  pre- 
tender, not  a  scientific  practitioner !  I,  however, 
am  acquainted  with  a  great  many  belonging  to 
the  latter  class,  and  I  do  not  believe  that  there 
is  one  among  the  whole  number  who  would  not 
willingly  and  cheerfully  attend  your  sick  child, 
without  the  slightest  remuneration.  Only  give 
me  permission  to  bring  the  one  I  mentioned,  and 
if  there  are  any  charges,  they  shall  be  paid  from 
my  own  pocket." 

13 


146  THE   LONELY   BURIAL. 

The  old  man  gave  his  visiter  another  puzzled 
and  incredulous  look,  and  then,  as  if  tired  of 
the  controversy,  sunk  once  more  into  his  former 
abstracted  attitude. 

With  a  promise  to  call  with  the  physician 
that  evening  or  the  next  day,  Mr.  Grant  now 
bade  Mrs.  Campbell  a  hasty  farewell  and  de- 
parted. But  his  steps  were  bent  in  another 
direction  than  that  of  home.  While  listening 
to  the  tale  of  the  poor  woman  a  thought  had 
crossed  his  mind,  which  filled  him  with  a  hope 
he  dared  not  venture  to  utter  to  the  heart -sick 
mother,  lest  it  might  end  in  disappointment. 

He  recollected  having  heard  a  merchant  of 
his  acquaintance,  some  time  since  mention  a 
circumstance,  of  which  he  was  strongly  re- 
minded by  some  incidents  in  the  narration  of 
Mrs.  Campbell.  Two  young  Scotchmen,  friends 
of  his,  who  had  been  for  two  or  three  years 
engaged  in  a  flourishing  business  in  New  York, 
had  determined  on  removing  to  St.  Louis.  Be- 
fore starting,  however,  they  had  called  on  him, 
leaving  letters  for  their  parents  whom  they 
were  expecting  to  arrive  in  this  country  in  a 
few  months,  and  requesting  him  to  look  after 


THE   LONELY   BURIAL.  147 

their  welfare,  and  see  that  they  were  comforta- 
bly situated  in  every  respect,  until  they  should 
return  to  New  York,  the  ensuing  autumn  for 
goods,  when  they  would  remunerate  him  for 
his  trouble,  and  take  their  friends  with  them  on 
their  return  to  St.  Louis.  They  stated  that 
they  had  already  written  to  their  friends,  giving 
them  an  account  of  the  change  in  their  location, 
and  directing  them  to  call  on  this  merchant  as 
soon  as  they  arrived  in  New  York,  and  he 
would  assist  them  in  their  arrangements,  until 
their  sons  should  themselves  return  to  take 
charge  of  them. 

Now  these  young  men  might  possibly  have 
no  connexion  with  the  unfortunate  family  from 
which  he  had  just  separated,  but  still  the  thought 
continually  haunted  him,  that  they  were  the  very 
persons  who  had  been  so  long  looked  for,  and 
so  long  mourned. 

Filled  with  the  hope  of  removing  the  suffer- 
ing of  so  unfortunate  and  interesting  a  family, 
Mr.  Grant  hurried  to  the  counting-room  of  his 
friend  to  make  the  necessary  inquiries.  Fortu- 
nately he  was  in,  and  disengaged. 

"  Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Grant "  said  he,  as  the 


148  THE   LONELY  BURIAL. 

minister  entered  panting  -with  excitement,  and 
the  heat  of  the  -weather.  "  You  seem  hurried 
and  agitated,  sit  down  and  rest  yourself." 

"  I  am  a  good  deal  agitated,  Mr.  Ray,  I  con- 
fess," answered  the  benevolent  Mr.  Grant, "  for 
I  have  come  to  make  certain  inquiries  of  you, 
upon  your  answers  to  which  a  great  deal  of  hap- 
piness or  misery  depends." 

"  Indeed !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Ray,  "  and,  pray, 
•what  are  these  questions  1  I  am  all  attention, 
and  will  answer  them  to  the  very  best  of  my 
abilities." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Grant,  "to  come  to  the 
point  at  once,  do  you  recollect  having  mention- 
ed to  me  sometime  since,  two  young  friends  of 
yours,  merchants  and  Scotchmen,  who  had  given 
up  business  in  this  city  and  removed  to  St. 
Louis  ?" 

"  Certainly !"  replied  Mr.  Ray,  "  but  what  of 
them  ?  You  are  not  acquainted  with  them  ?" 

"  No !"  answered  Mr.  Grant;  "  but  I  will  ex- 
plain matters  by-and-by.  Only  tell  me  instant- 
ly, what  were  their  names." 

"  Their  names  were  Edward  Campbell  and 
Maurice  Logan,"  answered  Mr.  Ray,  thinking 


THE   LONELY   BURIAL.  149 

Mr.  Grant  a  little  beside  himself  to  be  so  im- 
patient. 

"  Thank  God !"  exclaimed  the  good  minister 
starting  from  his  seat.  "  Thank  God,  it  must  be 
they!  Now  answer  me  two  questions  more. 
Where  are  they  now,  and  when  have  you  heard 
from  them  ?' 

"  They  are  probably  on  their  way  from  St. 
Louis  to  New  York.  I  had  a  letter  from  them 
a  month  since,  making  many  anxious  inquiries 
whether  their  friends  had  arrived,  and  saying 
that  they  should  probably  be  here  by  the  first 
of  September.  And  now,  if  I  have  satisfied  you, 
tell  me  why  you  inquire." 

Mr.  Grant  then  related  to  his  friend,  the 
main  incidents  of  the  story  he  had  just  received 
from  the  lips  of  Mrs.  Campbell,  and  stated  his 
own  convictions  that  this  unfortunate  family 
were  the  very  persons  for  whom  his  young  friend 
had  been  so  long  anxiously  looking. 

"  To  be  sure  they  must  be !"  answered  Mr. 
Ray.  "  But  what  can  be  the  reason  I  never 
heard  of  their  arrival  before  ?  For  Campbell 
expressly  stated  to  me  a  few  days  before  their 
departure  for  the  west,  that  he  had  written  to 
13* 


150  THE   LONELY   BURIAL. 

his  parents,  acquainting  them  with  their  change 
of  residence,  and  desiring  them  in  the  most  par- 
ticular manner  to  apply  to  me  immediately  on 
their  arrival,  as  I  had  promised  to  take  charge 
of  their  affairs,  and  attend  to  providing  them 
with  pleasant  rooms  and  other  accommodations 
until  they  should  come  on  to  meet  them  this 
month.  It  must  be  that  their  letters  were  never 
received.  How  unfortunate !  Here  they  have 
been  suffering  for  months  all  the  miseries  of 
poverty,  sickness,  and  death,  and,  worse  than  all, 
the  torturing  suspicion  that  they  were  forsaken  by 
their  own  child.  I  do  not  wonder  the  old  man  has 
nearly  lost  his  senses  under  such  a  load  of  accu- 
mulated miseries.  It  is  astonishing  how  the 
mother  has  been  sustained  through  it  all!  she 
must  be  a  superior  woman!  And  then  that 
sweet  Rose,  too  !  Is  there  any  chance  for  her, 
think  you  ?  Will  she  ever  get  well  ?  If  she 
does  not,  I  am  sure  I  do  not  know  what  poor 
Logan  will  do.  He  is  such  an  affectionate  dis- 
positioned  fellow,  it  will  certainly  break  his 
heart.  If  it  does  not  I  will  never  forgive  him. 
Did  you  say  that  you  knew  a  physician  who  you 
thought  could  cure  her  ?" 


THE   LONELY   BURIAL.  151 

"  I  did,"  answered  Mr.  Grant,  smiling  at  the 
eager  loquacity  of  his  friend,  "  and  I  am  sure 
she  may  be  cured.  The  physician  I  allude  to 
had  a  case,  I  think,  precisely  like  hers  sometime 
since,  and  the  patient  is  now  as  well  as  ever. 
But  now  that  you  have  answered  my  inquiries 
so  much  to  my  satisfaction,  I  must  go  and  see  if 
he  can  go  with  me  to  visit  poor  Rose  this  even- 
ing or  to-morrow  morning.  And  what  think 
you,  will  it  be  best  to  acquaint  them  with  the 
encouraging  prospect  there  is  of  the  speedy  re- 
turn of  their  son  and  Logan  ?  There  can  be  no 
danger  of  a  mistake,  can  there  ?" 

"  Tell  them,  certainly ;  there  can  be  no  mis- 
take whatever.  And  here  is  the  letter  for  them, 
which  Campbell  left  with  me  when  he  went 
away.  It  has  been  a  great  trouble  to  me  to  see 
it  in  my  desk  so  long,  I  assure  you,  and  glad  am 
I  to  have  an  opportunity  to  transfer  it  to  the 
hands  for  which  it  was  destined.  And  now  I 
think  of  it,  if  you  will  stop  a  few  moments  with 
me  at  the  Astor  house,  while  I  look  over  their 
books  to  see  whether  a  friend  whom  I  am  ex- 
pecting from  Chicago,  and  who  always  puts  up 
there,  has  arrived,  I  will  accompany  you  to  the 


152  THE   LONELY   BURIAL. 

Campbells'.  I  should  like  to  have  the  pleasure 
of  delivering  the  letter  myself,  and  witnessing 
the  rapture  of  the  old  people,  and  the  silent  joy 
of  poor  Rose,  when  she  learns  that  Logan  is 
faithful,  and  that  she  will  probably  soon  see 
him  again." 

Mr.  Grant  readily  acceded  to  the  proposal  of 
the  good  merchant,  and  the  two  gentlemen  were 
soon  on  their  way  to  the  Astor  house.  On  en- 
tering, Mr.  Grant  sat  down  to  run  his  eye  over 
a  paper,  while  Mr.  Ray  was  soon  engaged 
in  examining  a  register  of  the  daily  arrivals 
at  the  Astor  house.  He  was  just  rising,  with 
an  expression  of  disappointment,  from  his 
search,  when  his  eye  was  attracted  by  some- 
thing new,  and  he  suddenly  exclaimed,  "  What's 
this  ?  '  Campbell  &  Logan,  merchants,  St.  Louis.' 
As  I  live,  friend  Grant,  they're  here  now. 
They  have  just  arrived,  this  very  afternoon,  and 
here  are  their  names,  in  black  and  white,  on  the 
register." 

Mr.  Grant  started  from  his  seat,  and  looking 
over  the  shoulder  of  his  companion,  "  Thank 
God!"  he  exclaimed,  "here  they  are,  sure 
enough !  I  wonder  if  they  are  in  ?" 


THE  LONELY   BURIAL.  153 

"That  question  is  soon  decided,"  said  Mr. 
Ray,  suddenly  turning  to  the  barkeeper;  "Are 
Campbell  &  Logan,  from  St.  Louis,  in  1"  he  in- 
quired. 

"  They  are,  sir,"  was  the  prompt  reply. 

"  Show  us  their  room,  then,  we  wish  to  see 
them,"  said  Mr.  Ray,  motioning  toward  the 
door. 

"  The  gentlemen  are  fatigued,  sir,"  replied 
a  servant  in  attendance,  "  and  gave  particular 
directions  that  they  should  not  be  disturbed  till 
supper. 

"  Never  mind !  never  mind !"  said  Mr.  Ray, 
continuing  to  move  toward  the  door.  "We  are 
intimate  friends,  and  will  be  responsible  for  your 
breach  of  orders.  Show  us  the  way !" 

The  servant  bowed,  and,  followed  by  the  two 
gentlemen,  instantly  led  the  way  up  the  grand 
staircase,  and  pausing  before  a  door  in  the 
third  story,  gave  two  or  three  gentle  knocks. 
"Friends,  sir,"  said  the  servant,  bowing  to  a 
gentleman  who  immediately  opened  it. 

The  two  gentlemen  entered  the  room,  and 
Mr.  Ray  saluting  his  young  friends  with  all  the 
cordiality  and  frankness  of  old  and  familiar  ac- 


154  THE   LONELY   BURIAL. 

quaintance,  was  warmly  and  delightedly  wel- 
comed. When  the  first  friendly  greetings  were 
over,  Mr.  Ray  presented  Mr.  Grant  as  a  gentle- 
man in  whom  they  would  soon  be  much  in- 
terested. 

They  were  noble-looking  young  men,  and  in 
the  fine,  bland  countenance  of  the  taller  of  the 
two,  Mr.  Grant  had  no  difficulty  in  recognising 
the  brother  of  poor  Rose.  There  was  the  same 
soft  and  confiding  expression  in  his  blue  eyes 
which  characterized  hers,  and  when  he  smiled 
his  features  were  lighted  up  with  the  same  rnild 
beauty.  The  other  and  the  younger  of  them, 
would,  probably,  by  most  persons  have  been 
considered  the  handsomest.  His  countenance 
was  of  a  far  more  intellectual  cast,  than  that 
of  his  companion,  and  the  bold  yet  tender 
black  eye,  and  high,  broad  forehead,  around 
which  the  short,  black  curls  were  thickly  clus- 
tered, indicated  a  character  precisely  fitted  to 
captivate  so  soft  and  confiding  a  creature  as  was 
Rose  Campbell. 

"  You  are  the  very  person  we  wished  to  see," 
said  Mr.  Campbell,  again  warmly  shaking  the 
hand  of  Mr.  Ray.  "  To  what  fortunate  event 


THE   LONELY  BURIAL.  155 

are  we  indebted  for  so  early  a  visit  ?  We  were 
on  the  point  of  seeking  you." 

"  Indeed,"  replied  his  friend,  "  I  must  confess 
you  are  indebted  to  accident,  rather  than  design 
for  our  visit,  as  it  was  quite  impossible  for  us  to 
be  aware  of  your  arrival.  Though  if  I  did  not 
know  that  the  age  of  miracles  had  gone  by,  I 
should  be  somewhat  inclined  to  ascribe  our 
meeting  you  at  the  present  juncture  to  some 
supernatural  agency.  The  fact  is,  you  are  of  all 
persons  in  the  world,  the  very  ones  we  were 
most  wishing  to  see.  You  could  not  have  come 
at  a  more  fortunate  moment." 

"  And  what  is  the  particular  reason  for  our 
presence  being  so  very  desirable  just  now  ?  I 
hope  it  is,  as  I  suspect,  that  you  bring  us  news 
of  my  parents." 

"  You  are  right  in  your  conjecture,"  answer- 
ed Mr.  Ray.  "  I  have  just  learned  from  my 
friend,  Mr.  Grant,  who  discovered  them  to-day 
by  a  singular  chance,  that  they  are  in  the  city, 
and  have  been  here  since  last  December.  I  can- 
not now  give  you  a  history  of  their  sufferings 
and  disasters,  but  they  have  passed  through 
many,  and  of  almost  every  character.  It  seems, 


156  THE   LONELY   BURIAL. 

your  letters,  announcing  your  removal  to  the 
west,  were  never  received,  consequently,  being 
unable  to  find  you,  or  learn  anything  from  you, 
they  were  placed  in  a  most  awkward  predica- 
ment. They  were  long  buoyed  up  with  the 
hope  that  you  would  soon  make  your  appear- 
ance, but  that  hope  at  last  died  away,  and  they 
felt  as  if  you  had  forsaken  them.  This  and  his 
other  calamities,  advanced  as  he  is  in  years, 
have  almost  broken  the  poor  old  man's  heart, 
and  they  have  gone  well  nigh  to  the  breaking  of 
your  sister's.  She  is  now  very  sick,  and  has 
been  so  for  a  long  time,  though  my  friend  con- 
siders her  case  not  a  hopeless  one,  and  knows 
a  physician,  who,  he  feels  confident,  will  under- 
take her  case. 

"  Added  to  these  troubles,  have  been  still  great- 
er ones.  They  were  shipwrecked  on  their  pas- 
sage, and  lost  everything,  except  a  little  money, 
which  was  hardly  sufficient  to  save  them  from 
starvation.  Your  elder  sister,  too  frail  to  endure 
the  fatigue  and  exposure,  consequent  upon  the 
long  and  violent  storm  through  which  they 
passed,  died  before  they  reached  Nevf  York,  and 
her  youngest  child  has  since  followed  her.  Borne 


THE   LONELY   BURIAL.  157 

down  by  so  many  sorrows,  without  friends,  and 
without  hope,  you  must  therefore  not  be  surprised 
should  you  find  them  sadly  and  in  every  way 
changed." 

The  merchant,  paused  in  his  recital,  too  much 
affected  to  say  more.  The  young  men  had  lis- 
tened to  him  with  equally  strong,  but  variously 
expressed  emotions.  The  moment  he  had  ended, 
Logan  started  from  his  seat,  and  abruptly  seizing 
his  hat,  "  Let  us  go  to  them,  this  moment,  Ed- 
ward !"  he  exclaimed,  the  tears  rolling  down 
his  manly  cheeks.  "  To  think  my  poor  Rose 
should  be  lying  sick  and  forsaken  in  a  foreign 
land,  with  no  friend  to  come  near  her,  or  to 
cheer  her  heart,  when  it  was  wrung  with  the 
thought  of  my  desertion ;  it  was  too,  too  cruel. 
Oh,  come,  Edward,  come  now ;  I  shall  never 
forgive  myself  if  I  lose  another  moment.  I 
long  to  ask  Rose  if  she  can  forgive  my  apparent 
desertion,"  and,  grasping  the  arm  of  Edward, 
he  was  dragging  him  from  the  room. 

"  Stop,  stop !"  cried  Mr.  Ray,  seizing  his 
arm,  and  forcibly  detaining  him,  "  you  do  not 
yet  know  where  to  find  her,  and  if  you  did,  re- 
member how  sick  she  is,  and  how  long  she  has 
14 


158  THE   LONELY   BURIAL. 

been  so.  In  her  present  weak  and  nervous  state, 
the  agitation  occasioned  by  the  sudden  surprise 
might  prove  her  death-warrant.  You  must  not 
burst  in  upon  her  without  some  previous  prepar- 
ation. The  old  gentleman,  too,  is  unable  to 
bear  the  least  abruptness.  No,  it  will  not  do. 
Mr.  Grant  and  myself  were  just  on  our  way  to 
visit  them,  when  we  accidentally  learned  your  ar- 
rival. And  I  think,  nay,  I  am  sure,  Edward  is 
reasonable  enough  to  agree  with  me,  that  the 
better  way  will  be  to  fulfil  that  intention,  and 
break  the  matter  to  them  by  degrees,  for  too 
great  joy  can  kill  as  well  as  too  great  grief. 
You  must  both  be  satisfied  to  remain  here,  until 
my  return,  which  shall  be  as  soon  as  possible." 

"  I  suppose  you  are  right,"  said  Edward, 
pacing  the  room  with  quick  and  agitated  steps, 
"  though  how  shall  I  be  able  to  submit  7  Good 
God !  to  think  what  dreadful  calamities  may  re- 
sult from  the  smallest  accident !  Who  would 
have  believed  that  the  miscarriage  of  a  single 
letter,  would  occasion  such  accumulated  miseries 
to  a  whole  family !  My  poor,  poor  mother  1" 
and  his  voice  grew  choked  and  husky,  "my  dear 
old  father  !  my  dear,  sweet  little  Rose !" 


THE   LONELY   BURIAL.  159 

Mr.  Grant  and  the  merchant  waited  until  the 
first  passionate  emotion  of  their  friends  had 
somewhat  subsided,  and  then,  after  a  few  admo- 
nitions on  the  virtue  of  patience,  which  were, 
as  admonitions  at  such  times  usually  are,  on 
Logan  particularly,  thrown  away,  they  departed. 
They  soon  reached  the  humble  dwelling  of  the 
poor  family,  and  gently  as  they  broke  the  joyful 
intelligence  of  the  arrival  of  the  long-sought 
friends,  it  was  almost  too  much  for  them.  The 
poor  old  father  was  entirely  overcome.  For  a 
long  time  he  could  only  rock  himself  backward 
and  forward  in  his  chair,  and  weep  and  sob  like 
a  grieved  and  heart-burdened  child.  "  Thank 
God  !"  said  he,  at  last,  in  a  broken  voice, "  my 
son  is  not  a  heartless  ingrate !  I  could  have 
sooner  borne  to  lay  him  in  the  grave,  than  to  have 
known  him  capable  of  forsaking  his  father  and 
mother  in  their  old  age,  and  in  a  foreign  land  ! 
Thank  God,  he  is  not  an  ingrate  !" 

The  mother's  joy  was  expressed  only  by 
silent  but  blissful  tears,  while  Rose,  after  the 
first  speechless  moment  of  surprise  was  over, 
slid  softly  and  unobserved  from  her  bed,  and 
raising  herself  with  difficulty  on  her  knees, 


160  THE   LONELY   BURIAL. 

poured  out  her  gratitude  in  joyful  tears  and 
thanksgiving  to  God. 

The  careful  mother  soon  lifted  the  overjoyed 
girl  once  more  into  her  bed,  and  gently  kissing 
her  smiling  and  blushing  cheek,  "  Dear  girl,  if 
you  were  only  well,"  said  she,  "our  cup  of 
happiness  would  be  too  full,"  and  with  a  sigh, 
half  pleasure  and  half  pain,  she  turned  away  to 
make  room  for  little  James,  who  for  two  or 
three  minutes  had  stood  looking  at  the  trans- 
ported Rose,  in  utter  bewilderment  at  her  un- 
usual energy,  and  look  of  happiness. 

"  What  is  it,  aunt  Rosey,  dear  ?"  whispered 
the  little  fellow,  as  he  softly  crept  to  the  pillow 
of  his  beautiful  relation. 

"  Uncle  Edward  has  come,  dear,"  she  answer- 
ed affectionately,  kissing  his  little  round  cheek, 
as  with  a  smile  and  a  blush,  she  suppressed 
another  name  that  was  trembling  on  her  lips. 

"Uncle  Edward?"  he  exclaimed,  "and  I 
hope  our  Maurice  Logan,  too !  for  then  you 
will  get  well,  and  grandpa  will  get  well,  and 
we  shall  all  be  so  happy  !" 

"  We  shall  indeed  be  happy  then !"  said  the 
grandmother,  drawing  the  little  boy  to  her  side, 


THE   LONELY   BURIAL.  161 

then  turning  to  Mr.  Ray,  "  when  shall  we  see 
them?"  she  inquired,  "we  cannot  wait  long;  I 
am  sure  the  sight  of  them  would  be  the  best 
medicine  for  us  all." 

"That  is  just  what  I  think,"  replied  the  kind- 
hearted  merchant,  "  and  as  it  is  best  while  we 
are  about  it,  to  have  as  many  good  things  as 
possible,  if  Mr.  Grant  will  go  and  bring  his 
physician,  that  we  may  have  the  assurance  of 
this  dear  girl's  recovery,  I  will  go  down  to  the 
Astor  house  and  bring  mine.  And  then  we  will 
all  be  happy  together." 

Away  then  went  the  two  friends  once  more, 
and  Mr.  Grant  fortunately  finding  the  physician 
at  home,  he  was  by  the  bedside  of  Rose  in  a 
very  short  time.  After  a  careful  and  thorough 
examination  of  the  patient,  his  decision,  for 
which  all  were  waiting  in  anxious  silence,  was 
pronounced. 

"  The  disease,"  said  he,  "  under  which  this 
poor  girl  has  been  so  long  suffering,  is,  though 
an  uncommon,  a  plain  and  by  no  means  a  very 
difficult  one.  It  is  a  local  affection  of  the  spine, 
which  acting  upon  the  nerves  in  its  vicinity,  has 
deranged  the  whole  nervous  system,  and  oc- 
14* 


162  THE    LONELY    BURIAL. 

casions  the  spasmodic  tremors  under  which  she 
labors.  I  will  undertake  to  cure  her  in  two 
months." 

"  Thank  God !  for  he  is  merciful !"  exclaim- 
ed the  father,  clasping  his  hands  with  a  long- 
drawn  and  deep  inspiration,  "  the  night  is  pas- 
sing away,  and  the  morning  begins  to  shine 
forth !"  and  sinking  back  in  his  chair,  he  lifted 
up  his  eyes  and  seemed  lost  in  silent  devotion. 

But  the  long-tried  and  almost  wornout  mother, 
eagerly  snatching  the  hand  of  the  physician, 
wrung  it  convulsively,  then  throwing  her  arms 
around  her  suffering  daughter,  wept  with  all  the 
abandonment  of  hysterical  emotion. 

"  Mother,  dear  mother !"  said  the  poor  girl 
vainly  endeavoring  to  throw  her  own  shaking 
arm  around  her  parent's  neck;  "think  of  all 
the  happiness  in  store  for  us!  Edward  and 
Maurice  come  back,  my  own  health  and  strength 
restored,  and  all  the  comforts  of  a  plentiful  home 
once  more !  Let  us  forget  the  sorrows  of  the 
past,  and  think  only  of  the  joys  of  the  future. 
Our  heavenly  Father  is  smiling  upon  us  now, 
dear  mother,  and  let  us  thank  him  and  be 
grateful!" 


THE   LONELY   BURIAL.  163 

"  I  do  !  I  do !  my  child  !"  sobbed  out  the 
weeping  mother,  "  it  is  his  goodness  which  oc- 
casions these  tears !  I  have  borne  all  the  sor- 
rows which  were  laid  upon  me  without  a  mur- 
mur, but  I  feel  now  as  if  joy  were  breaking  my 
heart !" 

The  good  physician  dashed  away  the  drops 
that  were  gathering  in  his  eyes,  and  lifting  the 
sobbing  mother  from  the  bed,  "  Come,  come," 
said  he,  "  I  cannot  permit  this  any  longer.  We 
must  think  of  the  health  of  my  patient,  which 
this  agitation  is  by  no  means  calculated  to 
improve !" 

The  thought  of  her  child  was  enough  for  the 
mother,  and,  with  a  strong  effort  at  self-control, 
she  instantly  subdued  her  emotion,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  was  composed  and  calm  as  ever.  The 
physician,  then  giving  his  attention  to  Rose, 
applied  such  remedies  and  gave  such  directions 
as  he  deemed  necessary,  and  kindly  bidding  the 
now  happy  family  farewell,  took  his  leave. 


164  THE   LONELY   BURIAL. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  Sorrows  remembered  sweeten  present  joy." 

HARDLY  had  the  kind-hearted  physician  left 
the  humble  dwelling  of  Mr.  Campbell,  when  Mr. 
Ray  and  his  two  young  friends  entered.  But  to 
describe  the  meeting  of  the  long-separated 
family,  is  beyond  the  powers  of  my  feeble  pen. 
Those  who,  in  a  foreign  land,  have  experienced 
all  the  varied  misfortunes  which  it  had  been  the 
lot  of  this  devoted  family  to  pass  through,  and 
who  have  withered  under  all  that  "heart-sick 
hope  deferred,"  which,  worse  than  the  darkest 
certainty,  had  so  long  weighed  down  the  souls 
of  the  almost  despairing  parents,  and  the  suffer- 
ing Rose,  can  alone  imagine  its  mingled  joy  and 
pain. 

"My  son!"  "father!"  "mother!"  "dearest 
Rose !"  were  the  brief  but  expressive  ejacula- 
tions, which  burst  simultaneously  from  the  lips 
of  all. 


THE   LONELY   BUKIAL.  165 

"Let  me  look  at  him!"  exclaimed  the  poor 
old  father,  as  with  a  weak  and  trembling  hand, 
he  grasped  the  shoulder  of  his  long-sought  son ; 
and  holding  him  at  arm's  length,  long  and  ear- 
nestly his  dim  eyes  wandered  over  his  ruddy  and 
handsome  features.  "  Let  me  see  what  changes 
these  three  long,  weary  years  have  wrought  in 
him.  Let  me  see  if  the  fatal  hand  which  has 
been  so  unsparingly  at  work  with  my  other 
children,  has  past  him  by  unscathed.  Ah,"  con- 
tinued he,  his  voice  softening  into  tenderness, 
while  the  strong  workings  of  his  countenance, 
betrayed  the  inward  strivings  of  his  heart,  "  here 
is  the  same  soft  blue  eye,  and  bright  cheek,  the 
same  tender  smile!  Time  and  fortune  have 
dealt  more  gently  with  you,  my  son,  than  with 
us.  But,  blessed  be  God !  we  shall  see  happier 
days !  Misfortune,  I  trust,  has  expended  her 
crudest  shafts." 

"  Let  me  too  see  him !"  exclaimed  the  fond 
mother,  impatiently  throwing  her  arms  around 
the  neck  of  her  son,  "  let  me  find  him  but  un- 
changed in  heart  and  health,  and  I  will  murmur 
at  no  change  in  his  person."  But,  as  she  ten- 
derly gazed  on  his  manly  and  beaming  face, 


166  THE   LONELY   BURIAL. 

the  proud  and  loving  expression  which  shone  in 
her  eye,  told  how  far  removed  from  indifference 
was  the  feeling  with  which  she  regarded  his 
bright  and  glowing  beauty.  But,  as  she  fondly 
examined  each  wrell-remembered  lineament,  the 
look  of  pride  gave  place  to  one  of  mournful  re- 
gret, for  the  memory  of  the  past  was  stealing 
slowly  back  upon  her  heart.  "You  are  the 
same,"  she  exclaimed  in  a  subdued  and  touching 

voice,  "I  see  no  change  in  you,  but,  with  us 

The  links  of  our  household  chain  have  been 
rudely  broken  since  you  left  us,  my  son,  and  one 
who  would  have  joyed  to  see  this  day,  has  gone 
from  us.  Agnes,  our  poor  Agnes,  as  your  friends 
have  probably  told  you,  lies  buried  in  the  sea, 
and  her  second-born  has  found  an  early  grave 
in  one  of  the  churchyards  of  this  city.  But  God, 
who  does  all  things  well,  saw  that  it  was  good 
for  us  to  be  thus  afflicted,  and  though  my  heart 
has  bent  beneath  the  blow,  until  I  thought  it 
must  surely  break,  I  have  forborne  to  murmur 
at  the  bereavement.  But  I  will  not  sadden  you 
with  such  remembrances,  when  we  ought  to 
think  of  nothing  but  joy,  especially  as  poor  Rose 


THE   LONELY   BURIAL.  167 

has  been  patiently  waiting  so  long  for  an  em- 
brace. See  how  happy  she  looks !" 

Rose  was  indeed  happy  —  too  happy  to  give 
utterance  to  her  joy  in  words.  She  lay  on  her 
pillow,  her  face  all  covered  with  smiles  and 
tears,  fondly  looking  up  into  the  eyes  of  Mau- 
rice, who  sat  bending  over  her,  one  arm  encir- 
cling the  neck  of  the  beautiful  girl,  while  the 
other  one  served  as  a  resting-place  for  his  own 
face,  which  presented  quite  as  much  the  appear- 
ance of  an  April  day,  as  that  of  his  more  gentle 
companion. 

"  Dear  Rose !"  whispered  the  young  man, 
softly  touching  his  lips  to  the  faintly  blushing 
cheek  of  the  sick  girl.  "  Dear,  suffering  Rose, 
to  meet  you  after  so  long  a  separation,  and  to 
meet  you  thus  —  to  think  how  you  have  been 
borne  down  by  the  united  miseries  of  poverty, 
sickness,  desertion,  and  the  death  of  those  most 
near  and  dear  to  you  —  oh,  it  almost  unmans 
me.  How  cruel  I  must  have  appeared  to  you ! 
How  can  I  ever  compensate  you  for  all  your 
sufferings  on  my  account,  to  speak  nothing  of 
those  endured  from  other  causes  1  I  feel  as  if  I 
had  been  the  guilty  occasion  of  all,  by  not  re- 


168  THE   LONELY   BURIAL. 

maining  in  New  York  until  your  arrival.  Why 
did  we  trust  to  the  uncertainty  of  letters,  when 
the  welfare  of  you  and  yours  was  at  stake  ? 
Oh,  Rose,  tell  me,  can  you  ever  forgive  me  !" 

"  Do  not  speak  so,  dear  Maurice !"  answered 
the  weeping  but  happy  girl,  as  with  her  own 
trembling  arm  she  affectionately  clung  to  the 
manly  one  which  still  encircled  her  neck.  "  Do 
not  speak  in  this  manner,  for  you  are  not  to 
blame.  It  was  all  the  miserable  result  of  an 
unfortunate  combination  of  circumstances.  Even 
if  you  were  to  blame,  how  could  you  doubt  my 
forgiveness  1" 

MauYice  was  just  bending  his  cheek  toward 
the  lips  of  Rose,  to  beg  the  seal  of  her  forgive- 
ness, when  Edward  laid  his  hand  on  his  shoulder, 
and  gently  putting  him  aside,  "Come,  come, 
Maurice !"  said  he,  with  an  arch  smile,  "  you 
have  had  this  dear  girl  to  yourself  as  long  as  I 
can  spare  her.  Give  me  an  opportunity  now  to 
whisper  soft  things  in  her  ear." 

Maurice  instantly  resigned  his  seat,  and  Ed- 
ward enveloping  the  slight  form  of  his  sister  in 
a  loose  wrapper  gently  lifted  her  from  the  bed 
and  placing  her  on  his  knees,  rocked  her  in  his 


THE   LONELY   BURIAL.  169 

arms  as  tenderly  and  affectionately  as  a  mother 
rocks  her  first-born  child  to  rest. 

"Rosy,  dear  Rosy,"  he  exclaimed,  fondly 
kissing  the  delicate  cheek  which  confidingly  re- 
posed within  an  inch  of  his  own.  "Does  not 
this  remind  you  of  "  auld  lyne  syne  j"  when 
we  strayed  together  among  the  banks  and  braes 
of  bonny  Scotland  1  How  many  times  have  I 
taken  you  in  my  arms  to  carry  you  across  some 
brawling  little  stream  which  your  timid  feet  were 
afraid  to  ford,  and  how  many  times  have  I  placed 
you  on  my  knees  to  rest  you,  when  you  were  weary 
with  too  long  a  ramble  among  our  own  dear  hills 
and  heather.  Those  were  blessed  times,  dear 
sister,  and  we  shall  never  see  them  again,  but 
we  will  try  to  be  as  happy  in  an  adopted,  as  we 
were  in  our  own  native  country.  I  have  a 
pleasant  home  at  the  west,  and  our  dear  father 
and  mother  have  promised  to  come  and  enjoy  it, 
and  I  hope  with  the  assistance  of  Maurice,  to 
persuade  you  to  share  it  also.  You  will  soon  be 
well  again,  or  there  is  no  truth  in  doctors.  And 
between  us  both  we  will  teach  you  to  love  your 
new  home  as  fondly  as  you  loved  dear  old  Scot- 
land. 

15 


170  THE   LONELY   BURIAL. 

"  Any  home  would  be  happy  with  my  father 
and  mother  and  you  and  Maurice,"  she  whis- 
pered in  a  lower  tone.  "  You  recollect  the  song 
we  used  to  sing : — 

"  "T  is  home  where'er  the  heart  is, 
Where'er  its  loved  ones  dwell ; 

In  cities  or  in  cottages, 
Thronged  streets  or  mossy  dell.' 

"Give  your  poor  Rose  but  the  assurance  that 
we  shall  be  together,  that  we  shall  not  be  separ- 
ated again,  and  she  will  be  happy  in  the  rudest 
cabin  of  the  west." 

"  That  is  my  own  Rose  !"  said  Edward,  with 
a  look  of  deep  affection.  "  There  spake  the  same 
loving  girl  that  used  to  hang  around  my  neck 
when  we  were  children.  We  never  will  be 
separated  again,  dear  sister,  Maurice  and  I  have 
wealth  enough  for  us  all.  We  are  in  a  highly 
lucrative  business,  and,  by  the  blessing  of  God, 
we  can  place  those  we  love  where  poverty  and 
distress  shall  not  assail  them  again.  But  I  see 
that  Maurice  is  beginning  to  look  envious  of  me, 
and  so  I  think  it  will  be  best  to  transfer  you  once 
more  to  your  couch."  And  with  another  affec- 


THE   LONELY   BURIAL.  171 

tionate  kiss,  Edward  gently  deposited  his  pre- 
cious burden  on  her  little  cot. 

"  And  now,"  said  Edward, "  we  must  endeavor 
to  find  a  dwelling  more  comfortable  and  airy 
than  this,  and  one  too  that  will  accommodate  a 
larger  family,  for  we  do  not  intend  to  be  separ- 
ated from  you  for  a  single  night,  until  Rose  is 
well,  and  we  have  you  all  safe  under  our  own 
roof  in  St.  Louis ;  and  you  must  know,  that  we 
have  one  of  the  prettiest  little  fairy  spots  in  all 
the  west.  Two  charming  cottages  built  just  alike, 
and  I  suppose  it  would  not  require  a  witch  to 
guess  who  will  be  mistress  of  one,"  said  he,  with 
an  arch  smile,  "  a  spacious  and  delightful  garden 
attached  to  each,  in  which  we  have  already 
growing,  the  broom,  the  heather,  the  blue-bell, 
and  other  Scotch  flowers  enough  to  cheat  one 
into  the  belief  that  he  is  in  a  mimic  Scotland. 
Father  will  be  in  paradise  when  he  is  at  work 
among  those  dear  old  native  plants,  and  the 
smell  of  the  fragrant  heather  will  bring  back  the 
roses  again  to  the  cheeks  of  this  poor  pining 
girl" 

The  young  men  soon  sallied  out,  and,  assisted 
by  Mr.  Grant,  succeeded  without  difficulty  in 


172  THE    LONELY   BURIAL. 

finding  handsome  and  commodious  rooms  already 
furnished,  to  which  the  united  family  the  next 
day  removed.  Rose  bore  the  fatigues  of  the  re- 
moval without  the  least  injury,  and,  under  the 
skilful  treatment  of  her  physician,  aided  by  a 
salubrious  atmosphere  and  a  buoyant  feeling 
of  happiness  to  which  she  had  long  been  a 
stranger,  rapidly  improved  in  health  and  strength. 

"  I  shall  have  to  divide  the  credit  of  my  patient's 
recovery  with  you,"  said  he,  one  day  to  Maurice 
and  Edward.  "  Love  and  happiness  are  doing  as 
much  for  her,  as  all  my  medicine.  But  never 
mind,  I  will  not  quarrel  with  you  for  usurping 
my  profession  ;  I  shall  be  but  too  happy  to  see 
the  dear  girl  restored  to  health  again." 

"  Ah,  happiness  is  a  great  medicine,  as  I  can 
"attest,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  who  had  been  a 
quiet  listener  to  the  remarks  of  the  physician  ; 
"  I  feel  that  I  am  growing  hale  and  sound  again 
beneath  its  influence.  I  think  I  shall  soon  be  as 
young  as  any  of  you,  except  it  be  my  little 
Rose.  Why  she  begins  to  look  as  blooming  as 
any  bonny  highland  flower  in  all  Scotland.  Well, 
doctor,!  must  confess  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  retract 
some  of  the  expressions  I  have  used  in  relation 


THE  LONELY  BURIAL.  173 

to  the  physicians  of  this  country.  Every  time  I 
have  looked  at  Rose  for  the  last  ten  days,  my 
conscience  has  goaded  me  for  them." 

"  Do  not  put  yourself  to  any  trouble  about 
it,"  said  the  physician,  laughing,  "  I  see  that  I 
have  achieved  a  victory  over  your  prejudices, 
and  that  is  enough  for  so  unambitious  a  man  as 
myself." 

"  Well,"  replied  the  old  man,  with  a  satisfied 
look,  "  you  are  welcome  to  that  victory,  since 
you  have  cured  poor  Rose.  Come  Rosy,  dear, 
let  me  see  you  walk  as  you  did  this  morning." 

Maurice  instantly  sprang  to  the  side  of  the 
happy  girl,  and  gently  passing  one  arm  around 
her  waist,  assisted  her  still  unsteady  steps,  while 
she  walked  several  times  up  and  down  the 
room. 

"  See,  dear  father;  see,  doctor,"  said  she,  with 
the  look  and  voice  of  a  delighted  child,  "  I  can 
walk  as  well  as  ever,  with  the  assistance  of  the 
strong  arm  of  Maurice,"  and  she  pressed  the 
arm  which  encircled  her,  affectionately  against 
her  heart.  "  And  see  how  steady  and  firm  my 
arm  is  too !"  she  continued,  taking  up  a  glass  of 
15* 


174  THE   LONELY   BURIAL. 

water,  which  stood  near,  and   holding  it  out 
without  spilling  a  drop. 

"  Ah,  I  see,"  said  the  good  physician,  "  you 
are  giving  me  a  very  palpable  hint,  that  my 
services  may  soon  be  dispensed  with.  But  I 
shall  come  to  see  you  at  any  rate  as  long  as  I 
can,  and  so  good-by  for  this  afternoon,"  and 
taking  up  his  hat,  he  departed. 


THE   LONELY  BURIAL.  175 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"Young,  chaste,  and  lovely  —  pleased,  yet  half  afraid, 
Before  yon  altar  droops  a  plighted  maid, 
Clad  in  her  bridal  robe  of  taintless  white, 
Dumb  with  the  scene,  yet  trepid  with  delight ; 
Frequent  she  turns  her  beauty-beaming  eye, 
Dimmed  with  a  tear  of  happiness  gone  by  ! 
Then  coyly  views,  in  youth's  commanding  pride, 
Her  own  admired  one  panting  by  her  side ; 
Like  lilies  bending  from  the  noontide  breeze, 
Her  bashful  eyelids  droop  beneath  his  gaze ; 
While  love  and  homage   lend  their  blissful  power, 
'And  shed  a  halo  round  the  marriage  hour." 

MONTGOMERY. 

IT  was  a  warm,  bright  morning,  in  the  mid- 
dle of  beautiful  October.  The  sun  was  stream- 
ing in  through  the  casement  of  a  pleasant  parlor, 

in   H street,  which  was  redolent   of   the 

sweet  odors  exhaled  from  numerous  charming 
exotics,  which  graced  the  flower-stands,  station- 
ed under  each  window.  In  front  of  the  house 
were  two  large  horse-chestnut  trees,  whose  rich. 


176  THE   LONELY   BURIAL. 

autumn-tinted  foliage  was  just  beginning  to 
grow  sere,  and  fall  rustling  to  the  pavement. 

It  was  the  residence  of  the  good  physican,  and 
within  that  parlor  was  congregated  a  little  group 
of  staid  and  well-dressed  persons,  the  parents  of 
the  owner  of  the  dwelling,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Campbell  —  whose  countenances  seemed  beam- 
ing with  happiness  and  expectation.  They  were 
apparently  awaiting  the  appearance  of  some  im- 
portant addition  to  their  company,  while  now 
and  then,  a  gay,  sweet-looking  young  girl,  of 
seventeen,  the  daughter  of  the  physician,  would 
flit  into  the  room,  and  after  glancing  around  for 
a  moment,  hurry  out  again,  as  if  on  business  of 
the  most  mysterious  importance. 

"Mr.  Grant  is  late,"  said  Mr.  Campbell, rising, 
and  walking  to  the  window.  "  I  wonder  what 
detains  him." 

These  wTords  were  hardly  uttered  when  the 
door-bell  announced  a  new-comer,  and  Mr. 
Grant  entered  the  room,  his  benevolent  coun- 
tenance radiant  with  pleasure.  He  begged  par- 
don for  being  rather  later  than  he  had  intended, 
and,  cordially  and  affectionately  saluting  the 
company,  took  his  seat  by  Mrs.  Campbell. 


THE   LONELY   BURIAL.  177 

"  The  day  is  come,  then,  my  dear  Mrs.  Camp- 
bell," said  he,  "  for  your  departure  for  the  west. 
Well,  God  speed  you  on  your  journey  !  I  feel 
that  there  is  little  which  should  make  New  York 
a  happy  place  to  you,  and  while  I  regret  your 
departure,  I  cannot  but  congratulate  you  on  the 
circumstance.  You  are  going  to  a  happy  home, 
and  I  have  no  doubt  that  the  journey  will  com- 
plete the  restoration  of  your  daughter's  health, 
which  is  already  far  better  than  that  of  half  the 
young  ladies  of  our  city,  who  call  themselves 
well.  October  is  generally  a  most  delightful 
season  for  travelling,  and  this  year  uncommonly 
so.  But  I  believe,"  said  he,  rising  from  his  seat, 
"  our  young  friends  are  coming." 

A  slight  bustle  was  heard  in  the  back  parlor, 
when  the  folding-doors  were  thrown  suddenly 
open,  and  the  physician  appeared,  ushering  a 
bridal  party  into  the  room.  As  they  advanced 
to  the  upper  end  of  the  apartment,  a  low  mur- 
mur of  admiration  at  the  loveliness  of  the  bride, 
ran  round  the  circle.  She  was  still  delicate  from 
recent  illness,  but  there  was,  nevertheless,  a  soft 
glow  on  her  cheek,  which  indicated  renovated 
health  and  vigor.  She  was  modestly  attired  in 


178  THE   LONELY  BURIAL. 

white  satin,  which  fitted  closely  to  the  graceful 
proportions  of  her  figure ;  a  wreath  of  orange 
flowers,  according  well  with  the  almost  infantile 
beauty  of  her  countenance,  encircled  her  head, 
while  a  white  moss  rose,  scarcely  fairer  than  its 
beautiful  resting-place,  trembled  on  her  throb- 
bing bosom. 

She  was  leaning  on  the  arm  of  her  affianced 
husband,  and  her  soft  blue  eyes  fell,  and  a  blush 
of  ingenuous  modesty  suffused  her  delicate  cheek, 
as  she  observed  the  admiring  gaze  of  all  turned 
upon  her.  She  was  followed  by  the  bridesmaid, 
the  fair  girl  we  have  already  mentioned,  who 
was  attired  precisely  like  herself,  and  as  she 
timidly  advanced,  clinging  to  the  arm  of  Edward 
Campbell,  a  more  interesting  looking  creature 
can  scarcely  be  conceived. 

They  took  their  stations  at  the  upper  end  of 
the  apartment,  and  Mr.  Grant,  after  a  short  and 
impressive  prayer,  pronounced  the  service  which 
was  to  unite  in  the  bonds  of  matrimony,  Maurice 
Logan  and  the  young  and  gentle  Rose  Camp- 
bell. When  the  minister  solemnly  proposed  the 
question,  "Maurice  Logan,  you  receive  Rose 
Campbell,  whom  you  hold  by  the  right  hand,  as 


THE   LONELY   BURIAL.  179 

your  lawful  and  wedded  wife,  and  as  such  you 
promise  to  love,  honor,  respect,  and  support  her, 
and  to  perform  toward  her  all  the  duties  of  a 
kind,  faithful,  and  affectionate  husband,  so  long 
as  you  both  shall  live?"  there  was  a  deep 
devotedness  in  the  look  which  he  bent  upon  the 
trusting  and  gentle  creature  at  his  side,  and  in 
the  intonations  of  his  voice,  as  he  distinctly  and 
fervently  pronounced  "I  do!"  which  spoke 
volumes  of  truth  and  affection. 

The  ceremony  was  soon  completed,  and  fer- 
vent and  heart-felt  were  the  wishes  which  were 
poured  forth  for  the  happiness  of  the  newly 
wedded  pair ;  wishes  which  were  received  by 
Rose  with  mingled  smiles  and  tears,  and  by 
Maurice  with  grateful  and  manly  dignity.  All 
was  joy  and  gladness,  and  in  all  that  happy 
group  there  was  but  one  sad  heart,  and  one 
melancholy  brow.  It  was  that  of  Mrs.  Camp- 
bell. She  indeed  rejoiced  in  the  happiness  of 
her  gentle  Rose,  but  mingled  with  that  joy  was 
one  bitter  recollection  which  she  strove  in  vain 
to  keep  back.  She  remembered  the  equally 
joyous  bridals  of  her  other  daughter  —  that 
daughter  whose  prospects  for  long  life  and  hap- 


180  THE  LONELY   BURIAL. 

piness  had  been  unshadowed  by  a  single  doubt, 
but  who  widowed  and  weary-hearted,  had,  in  a 
few  short  years,  found  an  untimely  and  an  un- 
recorded grave  in  the  fathomless  depths  of  the 
melancholy  sea. 

She  was  sitting  thus  buried  in  the  memories 
of  the  past,  when  Edward  stole  softly  to  her 
side,  and  requested  her  to  take  a  short  walk 
with  him  and  his  father.  Wondering  whither 
their  steps  were  to  be  directed,  she  instantly 
complied,  and  they  were  soon  in  the  open  street, 
and  bending  their  course  toward  the  churchyard, 
in  which  reposed  that  dear  child,  whom  in  lone- 
liness and  sorrow,  they  had  but  a  short  time 
since,  sadly  laid  in  its  last  earthly  dwelling. 

"  Dear  mother,"  said  Edward,  "  there  is  one 
spot  which  I  knew  you  would  like  to  visit  be- 
fore you  left  this  part  of  the  country,  and  as  we 
go  this  afternoon,  this  is  our  only  opportunity. 
I  would  not  sadden  poor  Rose  on  her  bridal 
morning,  and  therefore  gave  her  no  hint  of  our 
walk.  And  I  should  have  felt  some  hesitation 
in  taking  you  to  so  sad  a  place,  but  I  saw  by 
the  mournful  abstraction  of  your  manner,  that 
your  thoughts  were  already  there." 


THE   LONELY   BURIAL.  181 

"  You  were  right,  dear  Edward,"  replied  the 
mother,  with  a  grateful  tear,  "  I  was  indeed 
musing  on  the  melancholy  past,  and  meditating 
how  I  should  contrive  to  visit  our  little  Sidney's 
grave,  without  casting  a  shadow  over  the  bright 
sunshine  of  happiness  we  have  left  behind  us. 
And  I  thank  you  for  the  affectionate  considera- 
tion which  has  made  the  task  so  easy." 

They  had  by  this  time  reached  the  church- 
yard, and  the  sexton,  who  was  already  waiting 
for  them,  respectfully  opened  the  gate,  and  bade 
them  enter.  They  directed  their  steps  toward 
the  well-remembered  corner,  which  was  conse- 
crated in  the  hearts  of  the  aged  pair,  as  the 
resting-place  of  their  child,  but  what  was  their 
surprise,  as  they  drew  near,  to  perceive  that  a 
plain  white  marble  obelisk  had  been  erected 
over  the  grave.  Ijwas  surrounded  by  a  neat 
iron  railing,  and  fresn  green  sods  covered  the 
little  mound.  With  beating  hearts  and  over- 
flowing eyes,  they  approached  it,  and,  through 
the  tear-drops  that  almost  blinded  their  vision, 
read  the  following  inscription : — 
16 


182  THE    LONELY   BURIAL. 

ERECTED 

BY    A    BROTHER, 
TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  AGNES  M'INTYRE, 

A  NATIVE  OF  SCOTLAND. 

WHO    DIED    AT    SEA,   DECEMBER    19,   1838. 
AGED  TWENTY-THREE  YEARS. 


AND    TO    HER    INFANT    SON, 

Who  departed  this  life,  Jlpril  5th,  1839,  and  is  now  resting 

beneath  this  stone. 


Their  bodies  are  separated  on  earth,  but  their  spirits  are 
united  in  heaven. 


The  hearts  of  the  long-tried  mourners  were 
too  full  for  utterance.  They  turned  a  look  of 
gratitude  upon  their  son,  and  sinking  on  their 
knees  by  the  side  of  the  little  grave,  poured  out 
a  tribute  of  thanksgiving  to  God,  for  the  many 
blessings  yet  spared  to  them ;  then  pressing  their 
lips  to  the  smooth  and  verdant  mound  they  rose 
and,  with  one  sad  farewell  to  its  slumbering 
tenant,  turned  away  and  left  the  spot  for  ever. 


THE   LONELY   BURIAL.  183 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"Westward  Ho!" 

IT  was  a  sorrowful  hour  for  many  hearts,  the 
one  which  witnessed  the  departure  of  the 
Campbells  for  the  city  of  the  west,  which  was 
destined  to  be  their  future  home.  And  there 
were  many  who  would  fain  have  deferred  the 
evil  hour,  and  have  detained  them  altogether, 
for  though  their  acquaintance  with  their  new 
friends  had  been  but  of  brief  duration,  and  form- 
ed under  circumstances,  which  to  the  worldly- 
minded  would  have  seemed  anything  but  favor- 
able, and  would  in  all  probability  have  present- 
ed an  inseparable  barrier  to  the  intimacy  of 
friendship,  yet  were  there  those  around  the 
fibres  of  whose  hearts  they  had  so  closely 
entwined  themselves,  that  separation  seemed 
almost  too  painful  to  be  borne. 


184  THE   LONELY   BURIAL. 

Among  them  was  the  gentle  daughter  of  the 
good  physician  —  the  fair  girl  who  had  officia- 
ted as  bridesmaid,  on  the  eventful  occasion  of 
the  marriage  of  Rose  Campbell. 

Mary  Grafton  was  an  affectionate  and  un- 
sophisticated creature,  possessing  all  the  kind- 
heartedness  of  her  father,  united  with  just 
enough  romance  of  character  to  incline  her  to 
an  admiration  of  every  person  or  thing  which 
was  a  little  out  of  the  usual  order  of  common 
every-day  life.  When,  therefore,  her  father 
related  to  her  his  call  to  visit  the  poor  Scotch 
girl,  and  the  interest  she  and  her  parents  had 
excited  in  him,  the  imagination  of  Mary  was 
instantly  and  powerfully  aroused,  and  she  was 
seized  with  a  strong  desire  to  visit  and  befriend 
the  suffering  invalid.  This  desire  she  was  soon 
resolved  on  gratifying.  She  accordingly,  a  few 
days  after,  accompanied  her  father  on  one  of 
his  morning  visits  to  the  poor  girl,  and  finding 
in  her  a  being  precisely  suited  to  her  own  tastes 
and  feelings  she  had  given  her  all  her  warm 
heart,  and  loved  and  treated  her  with  the  affec- 
tion of  a  sister.  As  may  be  supposed  Rose  was 
not  backward  in  returning  the  affection  of  her 


THE   LONELY   BURIAL.  185 

new  and  disinterested  friend,  and  next  to  her 
own  family  and  Maurice,  she  loved  her  better 
than  any  being  in  the  world. 

During  her  long  and  daily  visits  to  Rose, 
Mary  had  constant  opportunities  for  observing 
the  amiable  and  affectionate  disposition  of  Ed- 
ward. She  witnessed  his  unceasing  devotion  to 
his  sister,  and  admired  the  cheerful  tenderness 
with  which,  hour  after  hour,  and  day  after  clay, 
he  watched  over  and  tended  her.  It  was  not  in 
the  nature  of  so  young  and  susceptible  a  creature 
to  behold  such  virtues  unmoved,  and  when  ad- 
miration for  the  manly  beauty  of  his  person 
was  united  with  that  of  his  other  qualities,  what 
wonder  that  a  feeling  for  the  young  man, 
stronger  than  the  warmest  friendship,  stole  into 
her  youthful  heart.  But  such  was  the  case,  and 
long  before  the  day  which  was  to  witness  the 
marriage  and  departure  of  Rose,  the  idea  of  Ed- 
ward Campbell  had  assumed  an  ascendency  in 
the  mind  of  Mary  over  every  other  thought  and 
feeling  of  her  existence. 

The  time  for  their  departure  at  length  arrived, 
and  as  the  gentle-hearted  girl  hung  on  the  neck 
of  Rose,  entreating  her  to  write  often  and  not 
16* 


186  THE   LONELY   BURIAL. 

to  forget  her,  who  shall  say  how  many  of  tl 
bitter  tears  which  were  poured  out  on  the  bosom 
of  the  sister,  were  shed  for  her  affectionate  and 
manly  brother  1  Rose  was  as  much  overcome 
at  parting  as  her  friends,  and  many  were  her 
assurances  of  unchangeable  affection,  and  her 
promises  of  constant  remembrance  and  frequent 
correspondence. 

Mary  had  taken  leave  of  all  her  other  friends, 
and  turned  to  say  farewell  to  Edward.  But  as 
she  took  his  hand  to  speak  the  parting  wishes, 
the  color  faded  from  her  cheek,  and  the  words 
died  away  on  her  lips.  After  a  momentary 
and  unavailing  struggle  to  overcome  her  emo- 
tions, she  raised  her  eyes  to  his,  and  saw  that  his 
lips  were  also  quivering  with  a  vain  attempt  to 
speak,  and  that  his  eyes  were  suffused  with  tears. 
But  other  eyes  were  upon  them  and  while  his 
more  yielding  companion  finished  by  bursting 
into  tears,  the  young  man  by  a  strong  effort 
mastered  his  emotion,  and  wringing  the  little 
trembling  hand,  he  still  held  with  one  that, 
trembled  with  equal  violence,  he  faltered  out, 
"  Mary,  do  not  forget  me !"  and  pressing  a  kiss 
upon  lips  which  were  not  withdrawn,  he  darted 


THE   LONELY   BURIAL.  187 

from  the  house,  ascended  the  carriage  in  which 
his  friends  were  already  seated,  and  was  in 
another  moment  gone. 

When  the  excitement  of  the  departure  of  her 
friends  was  over,  Mary  once  more  returned  to 
her  customary  avocations,  but  not  with  her  cus- 
tomary zeal  and  cheerfulness.  It  was  not  long 
before  her  father  observed  a  change  in  his  once 
lively  daughter.  He  saw  that  when  busy  at  her 
needle,  her  hand  would  often  fall  listlessly  on  her 
lap,  and  she  would  sit  gazing  on  vacancy,  until 
his  heart  was  pained  at  the  length  of  her  evi- 
dently sad  revery.  Frequently,  too,  when  occu- 
pied with  a  book,  the  leaves  would  remain  un- 
turned, and  the  tears  would  fall  fast  and  uncon- 
sciously upon  its  pages. 

But  he  forebore  to  notice  this  change  by  any 
remark,  trusting  to  time  and  her  own  good  sense 
to  wean  her  from  the  object,  which  he  but  too 
easily  conjectured,  was  the  cause  of  her  melan- 
choly musings.  But  her  melancholy  was  des- 
tined soon  to  be  removed  by  other  means  than 
he  anticipated. 

About  two  months  after  the  departure  of  Ed- 
ward and  his  family,  Dr.  Grafton  received  a  let- 


188  THE   LONELY   BURIAL. 

ter  from  the  young  man,  enclosing  a  package 
for  Mary.  What  their  contents  were,  I  cannot 
precisely  say,  but  the  cheek  of  Mary  soon  grew 
as  bright,  and  her  step  as  elastic,  as  ever,  while 
her  father  appeared  at  first  surprised,  next  rather 
disappointed,  and.  finally,  satisfied  with  the  pe- 
rusal of  his.  * 

It  was  soon  observed  by  the  young  friends  of 
Mary,  that  she  was  growing  unusually  indus- 
trious, and  that  an  unaccountable  quantity  of 
her  time  was  devoted  to  sewing;  while  not 
many  months  elapsed  before  it  was  rumored  that 
the  doctor  was  about  to  dispose  of  his  property 
in  New  York,  retire  from  his  profession,  and  re- 
move to  St.  Louis.  This  excited  little  surprise 
among  his  friends,  as  it  was  known  that  he  had 
amassed  a  fortune  sufficient  to  render  his  future 
days  independent,  and  that  he  had  often  ex- 
pressed a  desire  to  visit  the  far  west.  But  it 
was  not  known  that  Edward  Campbell  had  so- 
licited and  obtained  the  promise  of  the  hand  of 
Mary  Grafton  in  marriage. 

October  at  length  came,  and  with  it  came 
Edward  Campbell  once  more.  His  business  in 
New  York  was  soon  accomplished,  and  when 


THE   LONELY    BURIAL.  189 

he  returned  to  St.  Louis,  to  the  surprise  of 
Mary's  friends,  he  returned,  accompanied  by  a 
new  father  and  a  new  wife. 


THE    VALLEY    OF    PEACE. 

It  was  a  beautiful  conception  of  the  Moravians  to  give  to  rural  cemeteries 
the  appropriate  name  of"  Valleys"  or  "  Fields  of  Peace  '' 

OH,  come,  let  us  go  to  the  Valley  of  Peace ! 

There  earth's  weary  cares  to  perplex  us  shall  cease ; 

We  will  stray  through  its  solemn,  and  far-spreading  shades, 

Till  twilight's  last  ray  from  each  green  hillock  fades. 

There  slumber  the  friends  whom  we  long  must  regret — 

The  forms  whose  mild  beauty  we  cannot  forget ! 

We  will  seek  the  low  mounds  where  so  softly  they  sleep, 

And  will  sit  down  and  muse  on  the  idols  we  weep ; 

But  we  will  not  repine  that  they  are  hid  from  our  eyes, 

For  we  know  they  still  live  in  a  home  in  the  skies ; 

But  we  '11  pray  that,  when  life's  weary  journey  shall  cease, 

We  may  slumber  with  them  in  the  Valley  of  Peace  ! 

Oh,  sad  were  our  path  through  this  valley  of  tears, 
If,  when  weary  and  wasted  with  toil  and  with  years, 
No  home  were  prepared,  where  the  pilgrim  might  lay 
Mortality's  cumbering  vestments  away  ! 
But  sadder,  and  deeper,  and  darker  the  gloom, 
That  would  close  o'er  our  way  as  we  speed  to  the  tomb, 
If  faith  pointed  not  to  that  heavenly  goal, 
Where  the  sun  of  eternity  beams  on  the  soul ! 
1  Oh,  who,  'mid  the  sorrows  and  changes  of  time, 
E'er  dreamed  of  that  holy,  that  happier  clime, 
But  yearned  for  the  hour  of  the  spirit's  release  — 
For  a  piUow  of  rest  in  the  Valley  of  Peace  ! 

Oh,  come,  thou  pale  mourner,  whose  sorrowing  gaze 
Seems  fixed  on  the  shadows  of  long-vanished  days  — 


192        THE  VALLEY  OF  PEACE. 

Sad,  sad  is  thy  tale  of  bereavement  and  wo, 

And  thy  spirit  is  weary  of  life's  garish  show ! 

Come  here  —  I  will  show  thee  a  haven  of  rest, 

Where  sorrow  no  longer  invades  the  calm  breast  — 

Where  the  spirit  throws  off  its  dull  mantle  of  care, 

And  the  robe  is  ne'er  folded  o'er  secret  despair  ! 

Yet  the  dwelling  is  lonely,  and  silent,  and  cold, 

And  the  soul  may  shrink  back  as  its  portals  unfold ; 

But  a  bright  star  has  dawned  through  the  shades  of  the  east; 

That  will  light  up  with  beauty  the  Valley  of  Peace  ! 

Thou  frail  child  of  error  !  come  hither  and  say, 

Has  the  world  yet  a  charm  that  can  lure  thee  to  stay  ? 

Ah,  no !  in  thine  aspect  is  anguish  and  wo, 

And  deep  shame  has  written  its  name  on  thy  brow ! 

Poor  outcast !  too  long  hast  thou  wandered  forlorn, 

In  a  path  where  thy  feet  are  all  gored  with  the  thorn  — 

Where  thy  breast  by  the  fang  of  the  serpent  is  stung, 

And  scorn  on  thy  head  by  a  cold  world  is  flung  ! 

Come  here,  and  find  rest  from  thy  guilt  and  thy  tears, 

And  a  sleep  sweet  as  that  of  thine  innocent  years  ! 

We  will  spread  thee  a  couch  where  thy  woes  shall  all  cease, 

Oh,  come  and  lie  down  in  the  Valley  of  Peace ! 

The  grave  !  ah,  the  grave !  't  is  a  mighty  strong-hold, 
The  weak,  the  oppressed,  all  are  safe  in  its  fold  ! 
There  penury's  toil-wasted  children  may  come, 
And  the  helpless,  the  houseless,  at  last  find  a  home ! 
What  myriads  unnumbered  have  sought  its  repose, 
Since  the  day  when  the  sun  on  creation  first  rose : 
And  there,  till  earth's  latest,  dread  morning  shall  break, 
Shall  its  wide  generations  their  last  dwelling  make  ! 
But  beyond  is  a  world  —  how  resplendently  bright ! 
And  all  that  have  lived  shall  be  bathed  in  its  light ! 
We  shall  rise  —  we  shall  soar  where  earth's  sorrows  shall 

cease, 
Though  our  mortal  clay  rests  in  the  Valley  of  Peace ! 


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